


Name in Lights

by murraysmistress



Category: Defiance (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, High School, Whiterose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 46,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murraysmistress/pseuds/murraysmistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kenya is attending a new high school in the once-great-city-now-town of New York while Amanda attends a local law school. Post-Defiance, AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is obviously incredibly short, but I wanted to get part of this project finished and posted in hopes of getting some feedback on this concept and my version of a post-Defiance universe. I don't know the Defiance timeline that well but I am trying to get a better grip on it. This story is set to take place approximately in 2065. If something is unclear, confusing, or completely inaccurate, let me know (post in the comments!) and I'll try to clarify for you here or in later chapters. Title is borrowed from the song Name in Lights by Little Daylight for no other reason that it's one of the three songs I've had on repeat while writing Whiterose.
> 
> Also, I'm listening to an audiobook right now which makes proofreading kind of hard. It's not gonna happen until tonight. Please forgive me of my sins (/errors.)

"Just one year, Kenya. That's all you gotta do. Finish this year, graduate from high school, and then you can go wherever and do whatever the hell you want. Just do yourself this one favor and graduate, alright?"

"That's pretty vague, 'manda. What if I wanna, I dunno, marry an Irath drug lord and become a prostitute?"

"Oh, jek off, Ken. I don't care. Just please, please graduate first."

"I can do that." A pause, a smug look, and then: "Probably."

Or so she'd thought. When she'd flashed Amanda that smile and assured her- again- that yes, she would be alright, and no, she wasn't going to skip class, Kenya hadn't considered just how small these hallways would feel. Now she stood, eyes wide, with her back flush against her locker and arms clamped protectively across her chest. The hall roared around her. A flurry of seven different languages taunted her ears, dared her to pick one and follow it.

She wanted to _leave._

But she didn't. She inhaled. Searched her pocket for her schedule. Found it. Pulled it out. Exhaled.  


First period was American history.

The bell rang overhead.

By the time she located and entered the classroom, the second bell had rung and the students were chatting amongst themselves. A handful of them looked up at Kenya, and she smiled at them in hopes of warding off their stares. The teacher, luckily, was late.

Kenya scanned the room. In the back left corner was a handful of Castithans. They seemed altogether uninterested in each other, and threw cool, apathetic glances about the room. In front and to the right of the Castis sat a mix of Irathients and Sensoths. In the corner closest the door, a Liberata boy slept at his desk, and two Indogenes were deep in conversation. Their animated hands flew about, and she heard the words "unlikely conditions" and "fatal strain" run from their lips. A shudder possessed Kenya's spine.

_Why do Indogenes always have to be so morbid?_

The right side of the room was primarily occupied by humans. Here, a group of girls sat quietly, each seemingly absorbed in the blank first page of their notebook. Kenya sat amongst them and began to unpack her bag.

The girl beside her stared, eyes and mouth wide with exaggerated shock.

Kenya offered her hand and a plaster smile. "Kenya," she said. The other girl's expression shifted into one of friendliness. Her blonde pigtails bobbed up and down as she shook Kenya's hand.

"I'm Tirra," she returned. "You're new, right? Like, super new? Usually when someone moves here, we get a chance to meet them before school starts- super small town, ya know."

"I moved here over the summer," Kenya said. "Just sorta kept to myself."

"Oh!" Tirra retracted her hand and opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Then I guess we'll just get to know you now! Are you gonna come to the dance on Friday?"

"Tirra."

Both girls looked up to see a [relatively] stout Sensoth peering down at Tirra through wire-rimmed spectacles. Tirra smiled feebly at him.

"Hey, Mr. M. Just getting to know Kenya. She's new."

Mr. M acknowledged Kenya with a grunt before making his way to the front of the classroom. He removed a flaking cigar from his pocket and gnawed at the end of it. "Good morning," he greeted the class. Silence and a few mumbled replies answered him. He nodded. Taking a long, slow breath, he ambled over to the whiteboard, uncapped a marker, and drew two abstract shapes. He put the marker back and took the cigar from his mouth. He pointed at the first shape. "What's this?"

"Old America," said a voice from the front. Mr. M grunted and pointed to the second shape.

"And what's this?"

"Uhh, America," said the previously-dozing Liberata. Kenya smirked.

"So what do you think you're going to be learning this year?" Nobody spoke. Mr. M uncapped the marker once more and placed the tip of it next to the first shape. "How we got from this, to-" he drew a line to the second shape- "this."

A dull sting began to settle in Kenya's eyes. She clenched her fists and ignored it.

Tirra poked her. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"But like, you will come to the dance on Friday, right?"

"Yeah, why not?"

 

After class ended, Tirra caught Kenya by the arm and smiled brightly at her. "So where's your FO assignment?"

Kenya frowned and pulled out her schedule. What the hell was an FO? "My what?"

"Fuavano? Here, look." Tirra snatched the paper out of Kenya's hands and pointed to the bottom. "Ooh, look. You're in courtyard 2 with me! Come on!"

"Tirra, what's a fuavano?"

"Um, like, it's like, a one hour resting period you get after each class? How do you not know what an FO is?"

"My old school was a private school based off the Old American system."

"Huh." Tirra turned down a hallway and opened a door to reveal a large, sweeping courtyard littered with trees and picnic tables. In the center of it was a communal bath filled with conversing Castithans. Kenya absently followed Tirra, but she could not tear her eyes from the strange centerpiece. One of the females, whom she recognized from history class, flashed her a smile. The Castithan boy next to her gave Kenya a dirty look.

"What are you looking, pink skin?"

Kenya averted her eyes.

"Don't mind him," Tirra said, settling into the grass. Kenya mimicked the movement, placing her backpack beside her and looping one arm through the strap. "That's Datak. Real punk."

"No, it was my fault, whatever. I shouldn't have been... staring like that. God, the poor things, having to bathe in front of everybody like that."

A giggle slipped through Tirra's lips. "Oh man, no. Dude, they _love it._ Show offs. Datak was just mad because Stahma was looking at you. They don't care if _you_ look at _them._ "

"Stahma?"

"Yeah, the other one. Girl with the purple eyes. So what's your story?" Tirra said, sighing and propping herself up on one elbow. "Like, why did you move to New York?"

"My sister is attending law school here."

"Yeah? So your whole family moved?"

"No," Kenya said quietly. "Just me and Amanda."

"Your parents let you do that?"

"No. They, uh, died in the Last Earth War."

"What?! Oh man, I'm so sorry. That's awful."

"It's alright." Kenya put her head on her bag and lay back, then exhaled, long and slow. The day, she admitted, wasn't going as badly as it could have. She hadn't been ridiculed or mocked or called any names (except for that once, and that barely counted, right?) And... she had a friend. And a break after every single class. Why didn't her old school have that?  
She wove her fingers through the grass and thought of Amanda. Kenya's eyes drifted to her watch.  
8:15. Where was Amanda right now?

"Hey, Tirra?"

No answer.

When she rolled over and looked at her companion, she saw that Tirra's eyes were shut and her lips were just barely parted.

Sleeping.

Kenya rolled back over and allowed the final 45 minutes to pass in silence.

  


On her way out of the courtyard, another hand brushed hers and she turned to see the familiar Castithan girl whom Tirra had called 'Stahma.' Her expression conveyed friendliness, but her eyes darted back and forth without ever quite meeting Kenya's own.

"I'm sorry about Datak," she said quietly. "He can be more aggressive than necessary. I'm Stahma."

Kenya grinned easily. "Kenya. It's a pleasure to meet you, Stahma."


	2. Famáiro

"Stahma."

That's the first name that bounced off Kenya's tongue at the dinner table that night when Amanda sat down with a glass of wine and asked, with a tone that said I-don't-really-care-but-you're-my-little-sister-so-I'm-gonna-ask, "So, make any cool friends on your first day?"

And then, of course, Kenya had to follow up with a hurried, "Well, kind of," because Stahma wasn't exactly her _friend_ yet, but she was definitely cool and Kenya definitely _wanted_ to be her friend. She added, "and Tirra, too," because although Tirra wasn't as cool as Stahma, she was sweet and definitely _did_ want to be Kenya's friend.

Amanda nodded, sipped her wine, rubbed her temples, patted Kenya on the back, and announced that she was "heading to bed," adding, "remember to turn off the lights on your way out of the kitchen. Love you!" and then waiting only long enough for Kenya to mumble back an unenthusiastic, "love you too," before heading out and leaving Kenya to listen to the soft _pat, pat, pat_ of her retreating feet.

The blinking light on the stove read ten past the twenty-first hour, and Kenya watched it until the minute slot turned into a one, then allowed her attention to drift to the crumpled bell schedule in her hand.

During the second period FO, Tirra had provided a more thorough explanation of both Kenya's schedule and how the school worked. The day was divided into block periods. Kenya was familiar with that; she'd had eight periods per day at her old school, and they varied in order. Here, however, she had a total of twelve classes divided between two six-block days. Each block was followed by a one hour FO, which seemed to exist for the sole purpose of Castithan bathing. For everyone else, it was just an hour to gossip and do homework or, according to Tirra, "fuck in an empty classroom."  
  
Kenya doubted she'd ever get the chance to do that, but she'd smiled and joked, "good to know."  
  
The twelve o'clock FO was two hours long to allow enough time for lunch, and another three-hour FO took place after sixth period for all those who wished to stay after school. The school, Kenya learned, serviced more than just high school-aged students. Like most public, mixed-race schools across the country, the school was an incredibly important and central part of the community. When the L.E.W. occurred in 2052 and the American government was reinstated, education became the nation's primary focus. And since so much of the people's money went towards rebuilding schools for the human and votan youth of the new nation, it became necessary for the new schools to be capable of providing for all members of the community. Furthermore, the schools were built to benefit and tolerate members of all races, but it was clear that 'a certain pale-skinned votan' had gotten their hands in a bit deeper than any of the other races.

The school, as a result, hosted all of the following: the largest and only public library in town; a full-service cafe that catered to all races; a public media and technology center; and twenty on-campus dorms that were available as needed to students without housing as well as those students who simply wished to stay after hours for educational purposes.

The rest of the town was not nearly as developed, but the integrated schools of America were the young nation's pride.

For a student like Kenya Rosewater who had grown up in a primarily-human colony and gone to a high school based on the seven-hour, eight-block school day, the integrated school system was a lot to wrap one's head around. Tomorrow she still had six more teachers to meet, and six new classes to attend.   
  
She read over the list again.

Latin. Indogene technology. Creative writing. Votan communications. Recolonization. Women's studies.

She wondered if she'd see Tirra in any of those classes.

She wondered if she'd see Stahma.

The blinking light on the stove read 21:20.

She rose, turned off the kitchen light, and went to bed.

 

The morning breeze shook her hair loose and pricked at her cheek. As Kenya stood outside the school, she watched as a younger Irathient girl waved goodbye to a human male. Kenya then watched as that man passed, and a mixed crowd of students, including the two Indogenes from her history class, entered the school. She smiled at them. They smiled back.

 _Okay, Kenya. Day two. You can do this._  
  
She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and entered the school.

 

The day passed similarly to the previous one. There weren't any familiar faces in her Latin class, but the people seemed decent enough and the teacher appeared knowledgeable. Indogene technology (or "Indo tech," as her classmates called it,) was completely over her head, but she got a kick out of the boredom conveyed by the actual Indogenes in the room. When Kenya asked her classmate (a younger, dark eyed-brunette by the name of Christie) why the Indogenes even bothered to take this class, Christie had said that many of them were required by their parents to take it, and the rest just wanted an easy grade. Kenya couldn't blame them for that.

Tirra arrived late to second period FO, juggling a tray, her books, and two large paper bags. Kenya rushed to her feet and took the tray and one bag from Tirra's hands. Tirra, in return, flashed her a grin.

"Where'd you get all this?" Kenya asked, sitting down and peeking into the bag. Warm, sweet air tickled her nose.

"Café. You like muffins? I got coffee, too."

"Yeah, of course."

"Cool. I got two of each. Pumpkin, and chocolate. I like both so take whichever you want."

"One of each?" Kenya suggested. Tirra shrugged.

"Sure. One of each." They divided the food amongst themselves accordingly. Tirra ate greedily, ripping off large chunks at a time and then shoving them into her mouth. Kenya grimaced and looked away.

"So," Tirra prompted in between bites, "What's your next class?"

"Creative writing." A dejected sigh passed through Kenya's lips. "I'm not, like, _good_ at writing. I just thought it'd be fun to read other people's stuff, and..."

"You needed to fill up another block."

"Yep."

"Well-" crumbs spewed across the grass. "-Mrs. Brooks is certifiably crazy, but she's an alright teacher. You'll like her."

 

'Certifiably crazy,' Kenya later thought, might've been too harsh of a description, but her creative writing teacher was definitely eccentric. Almost immediately upon entrance, Mrs. Brooks announced that she was fluent in all of the Votan languages spoken on Earth, as well as ten different major human languages. She proceeded to demonstrate this, greeting her students in each language and singling out a few students from the front with a short compliment in their native tongue. When a very anxious-looking Stahma came through the door and closed it with a soft _click,_ Mrs. Brooks whirled towards her, outstretched her arm in greeting, and exclaimed, "Fizhigwo, fizhigwo!" Stahma brushed the back of her hand against the teacher's in return, ducked her head, and slinked to the closest empty seat.

Which was, Kenya realized with a grin, the seat next to hers.

Kenya's eyes drifted around the room.

Most of the students, she observed, had a fresh composition book on their desk, but the notebook Stahma fished out of her bag was thick and leather-bound, and her knuckles strained and glowed as she held the book in her lap. Kenya's eyes drifted upwards and met Stahma's with a rapid blink of surprise. The Casti girl was quick to turn away, and in profile her expression conveyed a soft apology for which Kenya saw no reason.

Kenya wanted to say something, but she didn't know how to say _that,_ so instead she settled for a careful, "Hello, Stahma," and smiled when the other girl nodded and quirked her lips in return.

 

When the bell rang at last, Kenya was stopped by a hesitant tap on the shoulder and a troubled white smile.

"Will you spend your _fuavano_ with me?" Stahma asked, her voice songlike on the one word of her mother tongue. "Datak is not here today, and I- I cannot bathe alone." Her smile deepened and her eyes fell lower as she finished her sentence in a manner that made Kenya think she was actually ashamed of asking the question.

Kenya nodded slowly. Then, as realization hit, she began to shake her head vigorously and wave her hands.

"Woah there, you want me to bathe with you? I don't think-"

Stahma cut her off with a laugh. A _laugh._ A laugh that trembled and danced and faded quickly, but a laugh nonetheless. Kenya's heart leapt. "No, I understand. I just wanted to know if you'd eat your lunch with me?"

"Oh." A vivid red swept over Kenya's cheeks. "I'm sorry. Maybe that was a bit rude. Yeah, I'd... I'd love to have lunch with you."

Stahma dipped her head in a show of gratitude, and awkwardly took Kenya's outstretched arm, trailing a pace behind the small brunette as she led the way out to the courtyard. Upon entrance, the stares of two male Castithans hit Kenya as bluntly as the rays of the overhead sun, and in her mind she could hear Datak's taunts. _"What do you think you're doing, Pink Skin? What are you looking at? Do you have a problem with me?"_

But she walked on, held her chin high, and eventually settled into her usual spot. Stahma followed suit, carefully smoothing her gown as she did so. Kenya watched in awe as Stahma's slender fingers slid into her bag and emerged with a mesh sack filled with round, white, truffle-like treats.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kenya watched Tirra approach... and then quickly turn around.

"Stahma? Are you okay?"

The girl hesitated before admitting, "It's just strange not having Datak around."

"And why isn't he around, exactly?"

"He's... on suspension. It happens almost every year, actually, and always on the first week. He does have a talent for causing trouble."

"I'm... not surprised."

"Do you have a family name?"

"Uh, sorry?"

"A last name," Stahma said slowly. "Do you have one?"

"Oh. Rosewater."

"Kenya Rosewater," Stahma repeated, her lips curling around the name. "My borrowed name is Tarr."

"Borrowed? What, are you married?" Kenya's nose crinkled and her brow furrowed.

"No, but I don't live with my family anymore."

"You live with... Datak's?" Stahma nodded. "So... those guys over there... I could be totally wrong, but I'm pretty sure they're not together-together, but they're still in the bath. Why can't you?"

Stahma's smile faltered. "They are... men."

The implied _and I am a woman_ rang loud and clear in Kenya's ears.


	3. Her Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not changing the rating on this yet because there's nothing _extremely_ explicit, but be warned that this is maybe-sort-of borderline m-ish rated towards the end. Barely. Sorry to disappoint ;)
> 
> In case anyone is curious, I listened to Jungle by Emma Louise and Gaga's Burqa/Aura/whateVER while writing this chapter.

Over the dull roar of the shower around her, Kenya heard her name being called over and over again. She forced the shower knob all the way to the left and the water ceased. Sure enough, Amanda was calling.

"Kenya! Keeennya! You have a guest! Kenya!"

"Just a sec'!" Kenya shouted back, stepping out of the shower and throwing a towel around her slick body. On the way out, she wove her hair into a braid and attempted to steady herself. Despite these efforts, however, her stomach churned, and her skin rose in patches of naked gooseflesh.

She turned down the hall out of the bathroom, and was greeted by a tall, lanky figure that practically swam in an enormous, white, hooded cape. She carried with her a small duffle. A pace away, Amanda stood with crossed arms and an expression of confusion. Stahma removed her hood and started towards Kenya with open arms, placing her duffle bag beside her and wrapping Kenya in a loose embrace. Kenya supposed it may have been only an illusion provided the moisture on her just-showered skin, but she thought that Stahma's clothes felt wet, and that her hair smelled of rain. Over Stahma's shoulder, Kenya saw Amanda mouthing, "Who is she?" And Kenya, hardly in the position to give a full explanation, coughed and eased out of Stahma's embrace.

"Stahma, you met my sister Amanda?"

Stahma coiled back and turned to Amanda with a pleasant smile and low eyes. "Amanda, your sister has been so kind to me this week. From what I understand, you're the one to thank for her presence."

"Yeah? Glad to hear it. Any friend of Kenya's is a friend of mine." The warmth in Amanda's return, Kenya knew, was feigned. She hadn't let her guard down yet. It didn't surprise Kenya in any way; Amanda had been slow to trust for as long as Kenya could remember. It had served both of them well. Two young girls living on their own could have made easy targets, but Amanda never let them anywhere hear harm's path.

Kenya had gotten into enough bad situations to make up for the two of them.

"Stahma and I are gonna get ready for the dance together," Kenya said, tightening the towel around her chest. Amanda nodded, and Stahma retrieved her duffle.

"We should hurry," the Castithan girl said softly. "It was starting to rain on my way here. I imagine it will only get worse."

"Really?" Kenya headed back into her room and beckoned for Stahma to follow, then shut the door behind them both. Stahma knelt on the ground and began to unpack a heavy and intricately beaded white gown from her duffle while Kenya ruffled through her closet. "Will the dance be canceled if it rains, though?"

"The dances are held in one of the courtyards," Stahma said, shaking her hair loose from the bun in which it was previously held. Her fingers rapidly worked the white locks into braids and pinned them back. Kenya brandished a black cocktail dress for Stahma to see.

"How about this?"

The dress donned no straps and would, once on, fall a few inches above Kenya's knees. There was boning in both the front and sides of the bodice. A sequined gold and jaded peacock bridged across the top of the bust and down into a sheer, layered, and pleated skirt.

Stahma attempted to conceal her amusement, staring down at her fidgeting hands.

"It's very human," she offered. A pout possessed Kenya's lips.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Stahma shook her head. "It's perfect."  
  
Kenya hesitated, then, before dressing herself. She'd never had a problem with changing in front of others, but she barely _knew_ Stahma. Would she be... offended? If the communal baths at school were any indication, Castithans were unbothered by the unclothed bodies of fellow Castithans. Would the same apply to a human? "Uh, Stahma, do you mind if I...?" Kenya gestured towards the towel wrapped around her body.  
  
"Of course not. Go ahead."

Kenya dropped her towel.

-and to her enormous relief, Stahma did not bat an eyelash. Instead, she did the same, slowly sidling out of her robe and thin dress to reveal glimmering ivory skin and long, angular limbs. Her bones poked and prodded at the exterior of her flesh, then dipped into oblivion beneath the milky surface. The pubescent swell of her chest sloped easily into the flat, girlish plane of her abdomen, and lower into...

Kenya was not proud of the fact that she could not return the courtesy of nonchalance that Stahma had given her.

She turned the other way and dressed herself, cheeks burning a lucid red.

A sharp knock on the door heightened Kenya's embarrassment.

"Kenya?" Amanda called, her voice muted by the wood between them. "Can I come in?"

A glance toward Stahma told Kenya that her friend was not even near finished dressing. "No! What do you want?" Then, to Stahma, who was struggling with a clasp at the back of her neck: "Do you need help?" Stahma nodded and lifted her hair off her skin and out of Kenya's way.

"The dance at your school has been canceled. Just heard it on the radio. It's raining hellbugs out there." The clasp came together with a sharp _click,_ and Stahma stepped back to admire herself in the mirror on Kenya's closet door.

A brilliant light illuminated the room, followed closely by a resounding _boom!_

"And there's lightning too, apparently." Kenya called back, adding an obligatory but not entirely sincere: "Thank you, Amanda."

Her sister's footsteps faded off down the hall.

Kenya fell back onto the bed, unsure of what else to do, while Stahma began to pack her robe and gown back into her duffle. After she'd accomplished this and zipped the bag closed, she announced, "I'm going to head home."

Kenya shot upright. "What? Stahma, in this weather? You should... stay. Really. Just until the storm passes over."

"I need to get back to Datak."

"Oh, fuck Datak. You're not walking back in the dark in the middle of a thunderstorm. You could get hurt." She leaned, caught the other girl's wrist. "Stahma, please."

Stahma's eyes darted around, as though searching for the solution in Kenya's violet walls or cluttered desk; But her muscles finally relaxed beneath Kenya's grip, and she assented. "Alright. I will stay until it's safe for me to return home."

"Good. Do you, uh, wanna do anything until then?"  
  
Stahma dipped her head and gave a small smile. "I would like a glass of water, actually."

Beaming, Kenya hopped out of bed and took Stahma by the arm.

"I can do that for you. C'mon!"

 

As Kenya made her way into the kitchen and left Stahma to wait at the table, she reflected upon the week with a vague sense of wonder and guilt. Her friendship with Tirra, she felt, had been too short lived. They'd continued to sit next to each other and engage in friendly conversation during American history, but the blonde was all too quick to dodge any invitations to hang out with Kenya during the FOs. The only thing that had changed and might cause this was Stahma's presence, but Kenya could not for the life of her figure out why Tirra was so adverse to it.

Not that it mattered.

Datak would be back in school soon, and then Stahma would go back to spending her free time bathing with him and the other Castithans.

Stahma would have no more need for Kenya. Kenya could go back to being Tirra's friend.

Still, Kenya hoped against hope that Datak's return wouldn't mean the absolute end of her friendship was Stahma. She may not have understood Stahma, but she _wanted_ to, and she'd barely been given any time to start figuring Stahma out. She wanted to know what desires hid behind those lilac eyes, what history was harbored in that careful smile. She wanted to know about Stahma's family, about her parents.

She wanted to know if maybe the two of them could somehow relate.

Thunder continued to boom overhead.

Kenya returned to the table and set down two glasses of water. "Stahma, how did you come to live with Datak's family?"

If the question caught Stahma off guard, the only evidence was a rapid blink, and then her lips curved and her fingertips drew small circles around the rim of her glass, and she said, "When I was 15, my parents went through much trouble to promise me to a very wealthy Castithan boy of a high _liro._ " She paused and brought the water to her lips. "The boy fell deathly ill and I took the opportunity to run away with Datak. I haven't spoken with my family since then, but Datak's family has been very kind. Even Alak has become very dear to me."

So Stahma hadn't lost her parents in the L.E.W.. Though Kenya was disappointed at the loss of this potential bonding point, Stahma's story intrigued and saddened her. Would _she_ have been bold enough to defy her parents like that if she was in the same situation?

Even if she could, she thought, she'd never be able to manage it with the grace and confidence that Stahma possessed.

"Alak?"

"Datak's younger cousin," Stahma clarified, sipping her water once more. "He's a wonderful boy. He's courting one of our classmates... Christie McCawley?"

"Oh, Christie is such a sweet girl. She's in my period eight class. Indo tech."

"I worry about them," Stahma admitted, her voice absent of any trace of real concern. "Their relationship is an unconventional one."

"Because she's a human."

Stahma's hands fell to her lap. "Yes."

Kenya fell into a short silence.

"The whole time we've been sitting here, you've talked about Datak, Alak... and never yourself. When was the last time that you did something just for you?"

The white gleam of Stahma's teeth grew wider as her eyes fell lower.

"When I was younger, I wanted to be a performer. I used to write lots of... I suppose the closest human equivalent is 'poetry.' My father disapproved of it. He said that it wasn't proper for a girl of my _liro_ to be so invested in the arts. When I came to Datak's family, I brought my diary with me. I hoped that I'd be able to write more freely, but I've hardly written at all." She nodded as she concluded her answer, as though giving herself some silent confirmation or consolation: _Yes, I told it right. And I'm okay with all of it._

Another strike of lightning bit through the dark.

"Oh God, Stahma. That's just miserable."

After a brief moment with no reply from Stahma, Kenya rose from her chair, crossed the room, and flicked on the radio. It hummed, lifeless. Kenya turned the dial until finally music roared through the speakers- something old, upbeat, and vaguely familiar.

Amanda's voice sounded from her bedroom.

"Keep it down, girls!"

Kenya lowered the volume and shouted back a terse, "We will!"

Thunder boomed.

The room shook with the rain, the music, and Kenya's footsteps as she danced across the room in clumsy, overdramatic sweeps. The sequins on her dress mimicked the light in her eyes, and she approached Stahma with a somewhat forced but well-intended grin.

"Dance with me."

Stahma blinked and shook her head. "I can't, I-"

"Come on, Stahma. Do you think _I_ can actually dance? Do something for yourself. Just once." When the Casti girl still hesitated, Kenya offered out her hand and pleaded, "Please? We're all dressed up, anyway."

Stahma brought Kenya's outstretched hand to her lips and kissed it as though it were some holy treasure.  
  
She obliged and stood.

And despite her show of confidence, Kenya's heart hammered like the storm overhead. The two of them- the glittering, red-flushed human and the lanky, shy-eyed Castithan- were a jittery mess of limbs and nervous laughter. Kenya's flared black dress brushed constantly against Stahma's elegant white gown, and her bare feet more than once found Stahma's under the river of silvery cloth that covered them. They spoke no apologies, no words; just laughed and swayed and spun each other around in small, lazy circles.

At one point, Kenya was certain that out of the corner of her eye she saw Amanda's door open, but it was closed again only moments later.

The girls' proximity to one another quickly increased, and Kenya was soon close enough to see the exact tint of rose that ran the ridges beneath Stahma's eyes, the cool violet that stained her full lips. In fact, Kenya was hyperaware of nearly every intimate detail: First the touch of Stahma's hands falling hesitently upon her waist, and then the warmth of Stahma's breath on her lips.

Kenya could imagine nothing she desired more in that moment than to lean forward, capture that warmth with her own tremoring mouth...

The parting of Stahma's lips told Kenya that she wouldn't mind.

And she _didn't_ mind.

She didn't seem to mind at all, even when Kenya deepened the kiss and clawed furiously at Stahma's intricately woven braids and tore them apart.

The radio did not stop playing.

And their feet did not stop moving- not until they were across the room, down the hall, pushing Kenya's bedroom door open, and then kicking it closed with a dull _thud._

Never before had Kenya appreciated the loose design of Castithan skirts, but as her hands pushed away the cloth of Stahma's lower dress with ease, she decided that they were highly, _highly_ underrated.

Her lips grew warmer, softer still as Stahma's teeth claimed them with a passion equal in intensity to that which burned in her lavender eyes; Clear, fierce, and full of intent. Light moans passed up through the Castithan's throat and out through her mouth, but her eyes never once closed.

Kenya shuddered and brought two slick fingers up to her mouth, recalling Tirra's words with a dreamlike clarity.  
 _"Datak was just mad because Stahma was looking at_ you _."_

She dove back in and pressed a kiss to Stahma's open mouth before pulling up and whispering, _"If only Datak could see us now."_


	4. The Purpose of Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stahma says goodbye. Kenya and Amanda have a sister-to-sister talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, that's two chapters in one day. Forgive me if ch. 3 and 4 feel wonky or rushed. I had a lot of feelings today, so I binge wrote. (And ate nothing but strawberries and chocolate. It was a good day, by my standards.)

Stahma's fingers traveled absently across the open page of her diary. The morning chill, present even behind the walls of the Rosewaters' apartment, seeped into her veins like a slow poison.

And it exhilarated her.

On this particular morning, the very act of breathing was exhilarating. Every inhale of breath caused her body to rise and strain, emphasizing the poignant ache between her legs. Every exhale sent a wind scraping over her raw and swollen lips. Every single movement, voluntary or not, reminded her of the betrayal she had committed.

And how _good_ it made her feel.

She knew that from now on, she'd have to play her cards carefully. One wrong move could end the game she'd started with her new human friend, or destroy the sanctuary she'd built for herself with the Tarrs. She positively reeked of sex and human perspiration, so she'd need to shower before she went home. The clothes she currently wore- a white t-shirt and mesh shorts she found in Kenya's dresser- would have to be returned in place for the gown she'd arrived in last night.

She would tell Datak that she got caught in the storm at school, and that she'd spent the night there.

She'd kiss him and ask how he'd spent his evening.

She wouldn't even allow him enough time to _be_ suspicious of _anything._

Amanda entered the central room, already dressed and showered.

Stahma performed a brief assessment of the blonde standing before her:  
Related to Kenya (irrelevant; could still prove dangerous.) Non-Castithan (Good.) Would not likely often associate with Castithans (Good,) but might occasionally within her school (bad.) Any Castithans she did associate with would have to be of a very low social standing (possibly good.) Had not yet given Stahma any reason to mistrust her (Good. Thus far.)

Conclusion: Amanda was not likely a threat and would (likely) not harm her or Kenya for having slept together.

"Good morning, Stahma," Amanda greeted with a cautious smile. "What are you drawing?"

Stahma pushed her diary towards Amanda, who sat down and peered at it with curiosity. The ink drawing on the page portrayed an unclothed human female from both the front and back. Several spots were circled and labeled in Kastíthanu. Amanda nodded, obviously impressed. "You're very good at drawing, Stahma."

" _Bihalazhwe._ It's a map of Kenya's erogenous zones. It _is_ a work in progress- I mean, I clearly have not discovered all of them, but I think I'm off to a good start. See-" she pointed with one bony, ink-tipped finger to a spot at the bottom of the spine on the back view- "when touched here, Kenya has a tendency to-"

Amanda rubbed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. "-Stahma, that's actually enough, thank you."

"What the hell are you guys talking about?"

Amanda and Stahma looked up to see a very tired, messy-haired, hoody-wearing Kenya leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were small slits of grey in a confusion of puffy, pink skin and untamed hair. Her lips curled in a bow-like pout.

The chair beneath Amanda's body pushed away from the table with an undignified screech as Amanda climbed to her feet and directed her gaze towards Kenya.

"You and I are going to talk later," Amanda declared weakly. "But since I can't even look at you right now, I'm gonna go study at the library. You two can... have a nice breakfast."

With that, Amanda left, and Kenya sank slowly into the chair opposite of Stahma at the kitchen table. Stahma remained poised, calm, watching the human girl as she struggled for comfort and finally propped her head on two crossed arms over the table's surface. Her voice was groggy and strained as she spoke.

"First of all, how dare you wake up that early and leave me to die? It's fucking cold this morning, Stahma. I'm not really sure how you're wearing what you're wearing, when you got around to asking for permission to wear my stuff- but like it's kinda cute so I don't really care- or why you woke up at, like, five."

Stahma only smiled and reached out to stroke Kenya's hair. Kenya groaned.

"What was that conversation with Amanda about?"

"She wanted to see the map I drew of your erogenous zones."

The table and Kenya's head met with a sharp _bang,_ and Kenya groaned. Again. When finally she brought her face back up and met Stahma's eyes, she was shaking her head and whispering. "I don't even fucking _know_ you that well."

Stahma smirked, but the admission struck a soft blow to her chest. Perhaps Kenya _didn't_ feel like she knew her all that well, but Kenya had been the only person to ever care enough to try to know her. Kenya asked questions, read into all of Stahma's actions.

The only people who had done that in the past were people that had wanted something from Stahma.

But there was no way Stahma could say that.

At the very least, she couldn't say it _yet._

Instead, she stood slowly from her seat, diary in hand, and bent to press a kiss to Kenya's temple. "Can I take a shower before I leave?"

"What?" Kenya joked, "No time for a bath?" Stahma shook her head, and Kenya rolled her eyes. "Yeah, of course. Go ahead."

 

An hour later, Kenya stood awkwardly in the front door as Stahma saw herself out. She was awake enough now to realize that this might really be goodbye, and it was unlikely that _this_ would happen again. Stahma would go home to Datak and she would forget. Stahma might smile at her in school, or dip her head in acknowledgement at Kenya's greetings, but Kenya doubted she'd ever again hear Stahma's maniacal laughter as she breathed out Kenya's name and cried out in her mother tongue _over and over and over_ while the drum of rain on the roof drowned out their screams.

She wanted to kiss Stahma goodbye or hug her or anything something she just wanted to _touch_ her.

But instead she shuffled her feet and whined, "My body still hurts," as though it were an invitation to stay. Stahma glanced over her shoulder, then back to Kenya.

"You must remember that Datak cannot know of what happened here."

"What, but it's okay if you tell my sister?"

Stahma's eyes widened. "Is Amanda going to hurt us?"

"...No...?"

"Good. But Datak will, Kenya. You must be careful and take my word for it."

She turned  
and left.

 

By the time noon rolled around, Kenya hadn't moved more than five feet from the door since Stahma left earlier that morning. She was sitting on the floor with her back pressed against the wall and her arms wrapped around her knees when Amanda opened the door and called her name.

"Down here."

"Oh." Amanda stomped out her boots on the floor mat, took them off, and set them aside. "You alright?"

"Can I have a hug?"

"Oh Lord, Ken. Of course. C'mere." Amanda held out her hand and Kenya took it graciously, pulling herself to her feet and then caving into Amanda's open arms. Under different circumstances, Kenya would've felt guilty. She hadn't showered and she was still in her pajamas and she _wasn't_ a little girl anymore and she shouldn't to be burdening Amanda like this, but tears clouded her eyes and her chest ached with confusion and she _needed_ that hug.

And it felt like Amanda knew.

When she pulled back, she saw pity in her sister's eyes.

"You wanna tell me what happened last night?"

A short laugh interrupted Kenya's tears, and Amanda's worried frown morphed into mocking grimace. "I doubt you wanna hear about it."

"You know what? Let's make a deal. If you spare me all the really gross details, I'll make us some hot tea and try to be a super good listener. Deal?"

"Deal."

They moved into the living and dining room, then momentarily parted ways. Kenya curled into the side of the sofa and buried her head in her knees while Amanda prepared two mugs of tea. The sound of silverwear and mugs clinking penetrated the kitchen walls.

Five minutes later, Amanda reentered the room with two steaming mugs in hand. She passed one off to Kenya and sat down next to her.

"Alright, talk." Kenya's shoulders rose briefly, then fell. "Don't make this hard, Kenya. I'm not going to judge you, okay? And I'm not an idiot. So, you slept with Stahma, and...?"

"I dunno. She left."

"And...? Did you make plans to hang out again?"

"No."

"Are you mad at her?"

"No."

"Is she mad at you?"

"I don't think so." Kenya's sleeve wiped at her eyes. She sighed, sipped her tea. "I dunno, Amanda. She kept saying that Datak couldn't find out like he was gonna do some weird Castithan voodoo on me."

"Oh." A look of comprehension overtook Amanda's features, and she nodded slowly. "Datak is... Stahma's boyfriend?"

"Yep."

Amanda took a long sip of tea before speaking again, and for a moment, Kenya feared that Amanda would scold her. But if anything, Amanda's voice was gentler now, more understanding. "Kenya, she probably doesn't want to get caught cheating just like anyone else in a committed relationship. Castithans- Votans of any race, actually.... they aren't that different than us. I mean, they might speak a different language and worship different Gods and celebrate different holidays... and hell, some of them might even have different moral standards than us. But you know what I think? I think we all feel the same stuff. There might be some communication issues there, but we're all intelligent creatures with the capacity to love. Do you see her as your equal?"

A soft pink washed over Kenya's cheeks. A small laugh escaped through her lips. "She's... so much more than me."

"You're totally hopeless. But hey, she obviously has some feelings for you..?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And she seemed like a pretty sweet kid, even if- Kenya, I'm just gonna come out and say it: That drawing was weird. I'm still scarred. But, uh-" she paused and placed one hand on Kenya's knee. "Just promise me you'll talk to her about it?"

Kenya sighed and nodded. Her eyes were finally dry, and there was gratitude evident in the smile that crept over her mouth. "Yeah, I'll talk to her."

"Good." Amanda stood and matched Kenya's expression with her own. "You know, in another time, the biggest problem here wouldn't be that the girl you just screwed is a Castithan with a boyfriend. It'd be that she's a _girl._ You're lucky we've come this far, kiddo. And if you ask me, this Datak guy has nothing on my little sister."


	5. Repeat [After Me]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenya lies about a homework assignment. Stahma shares her love for biographies and investigates some human myths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this /technically/ is more M rated now than T, but this chapter isn't quite as graphic as it could be. Please forgive me for being lousy at smut.
> 
> Forward march!

Sunday morning washed over Kenya like a much-needed rain. Upon waking, she rolled onto her back and lay staring up at the ceiling with an easy smile fresh upon cracked lips.

Amanda was right.

She and Stahma just needed to talk.

She didn't even _need_ to break up Stahma's current relationship. Kenya and Stahma had only known each other for a _week;_ Kenya really had no claim on Stahma's affections. Thus, she decided, she would not pursue them.

And she would tell this to Stahma. Everything would work out. They could go back to being friends outside of school, and Kenya could hang out with Tirra in school. This year was going to be just _fine._

The more she thought about it, the more convinced of this she became. She stepped into the warm shower and tried to script the conversation. Water and soap ran over her closed eyes and trickled down her shoulders.

 _"S-Stahma, I'm really sorry about what happened on Friday, but I just want you to know that I don't- I don't expect anything from you."_ She dragged a plastic razor over her calf. _"Can we still be friends?"_  
  
She lathered the soap between her palms and spread it across her body. When one finger bumped across a small bruise on her inner thigh, she tried to ignore the memory of its creation.

Kenya rinsed, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped herself in a towel.

The bright-eyed girl staring back in the mirror was a major improvement from the sickly figure she'd seen yesterday.

Air rushed into her lungs as she inhaled deeply and pressed her shoulders back, eyes fixated on her reflection. She exhaled and practiced again: "Stahma, I'm sorry- really sorry about what happened on Friday..."

Stahma's house was, on foot, thirty minutes from the Rosewater residence.

-but that was if you knew the way well, walked quickly, and had a clear head.

Kenya got lost multiple times, and, as a result of this frustration coupled by her growing nervousness, had an anything-but-clear head.

The hour and a half if took for her to find the Tarr household- which Kenya finally managed by walking to the school and then proceeding down the route that she and Stahma had taken home on multiple occasions- left Kenya more than enough time to rethink her plan. What if Stahma _was_ mad and didn't want to talk to her? What if she'd never really wanted to be Kenya's friend in the first place, and Kenya had been no more than a convenient companion while Datak was unavailable? What if Datak answered the door? What if he already _knew_ what happened?

The possibilities, each cruel in its own way, weighed on her mind and confidence. It began to feel too real, too immediate to imagine in ideal, pre-scripted conversation. What was the likelihood that Stahma would respond exactly as Kenya expected?

Was there _any_ way to salvage this friendship?

By the time she knocked on the cracked, white-painted wooden door of the Tarrs' house, she still didn't know.  
 ****  
The door swung open, and her stomach flipped when she saw that the figure standing in the house's dim interior was not Stahma. Or Datak. And, as far as Kenya could tell, surely not one of Datak's parents. He was a boy, no older than Kenya herself (and by the looks of it, he may have been a couple years younger.) His silvery hair fell to his shoulders and was streaked blue with dye. He wore a t-shirt (plain, white) and jeans (shredded, indigo.) His features were far softer than Stahma's, and his eyes were pale by contrast.

He stared dumbly at Kenya, and Kenya stared back.

"Are you... Alak?"

"Yeah, uh... can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Stahma."

A pause. "Oh." He turned into the house, one hand still on the door. _"Stahma!"_ A flurry of footsteps, followed by a short hiss, bolted to the door. Kenya shrunk further into the fur collar of her jacket. Stahma shot a sharp glare in Alak's direction as he backed out of sight, muttering an apology and something about mistaking her for Christie.

Stahma snapped the door shut behind them and whirled towards Kenya.

"You can't be here," she whispered, baring her teeth like armor. Kenya swallowed hard.

"I, uh, I just needed help on some homework, and I thought-"

"You thought you could come in here and risk Datak seeing you? It's dangerous, Kenya."

 _There it is again,_ Kenya thought. _'Dangerous.'_ What was so _dangerous_ about Datak? Stahma cheated on him, but so what? Surely Stahma didn't want him to find out for fear of being confronted, but the way the word 'dangerous' bit past her teeth made the entire ordeal feel far less simple.

Stahma made it sound like someone was going to get hurt.

The realization made Kenya's heart sink. She knew all too well what that kind of relationship looked like.

"I'm sorry, Stahma. I can leave."

"...So you don't need help with that homework? We can go to the library..."

"Oh. Yeah. I have a, uh, oral exam in my Kastíthanu class on Friday and I could... really use some help."

Stahma beamed. "Then let's not waste any time.

They walked in silence, and always with at least two meter's space between them. Kenya had intended to spend the time formulating a prompt for her fictional Kasti exam, but she found herself far too fixated on the smug grin that presently possessed Stahma's face.

Grin aside, Stahma looked like the absolute epitome of purity.

It shook Kenya to the core.

The library was surprisingly busy, but relief found form in the break of silence.

The library was, at first glance, a narrow room with no more than a few rows of books which cut off at random. It had a low ceiling, concrete floors, and was eerily lit by the gridded fluorescents overhead. The distance between the shelves was barely enough for two bodies to pass between. The library was not known to do any favors for claustrophobic students.

And yet, it was the largest department in the school.

From a bird's eye view, one could see the library for the great and sprawling labyrinth it was.

Kenya's first experience in the library had occurred during Indo Tech the previous Thursday. The appeal of the design alluded her, but Christie had done her best to explain its purpose. The library was of Indogene design and thus was most easily navigated by the Indogenes. "They say that it works this way because it maximizes the amount of space," Christie had said, "but my dad says they just want everybody to look dumb. Cause, you know, no one else can figure it out."

The maze centered itself around a hexagonal clearing, which contained the library's database and several tightly-packed tables which library-goers were welcomed to use at their discretion. Though the library was not _impossible_ to navigate, it was certainly hard for a newcomer like Kenya.

So when she turned to see Stahma's cloak trailing off down the outer aisle, the only thing Kenya could do was follow.

She grabbed at Stahma's sleeve, and the Castithan girl leisurely turned to face her.  
"Where are you going?" Kenya hissed.

"To the biographies."

"Why are we going to the biographies?"

"The biography section is the farthest place from the _zwago_ and the door. And... nobody ever goes there."

"I need to practice for my exam!"

Stahma's eyes shifted backwards, and, seeing nobody, narrowed as Stahma leaned in until her nose was buried deep in Kenya's thick hair and her eyelashes tickled Kenya's cheek.

Smiling lips pressed words to Kenya's ear.

"I'm no fool, Kenya, and Decbozwo never gives oral exams."

 _Shtako._  
Stahma recoiled, eyes cast downwards, and resumed her lead through the labyrinth. Kenya feigned nonchalance and trailed her fingers along the spines of passing books. Stahma turned deftly through row after row. As they approached the center of the library, surrounding voices became louder and louder, then fell again as they continued past.

Kenya's heart only grew louder.

-and stopped as two slender hands forcefully guided her against the bookshelf.

"Stahma..." Her eye caught the title of a book on the opposite shelf. _Carrie Chapman Catt: A Public Life._ Biography. They were in the _jek_ ing biographies. Kenya fended off Stahma's open lips, protesting without much conviction. "Stahma, what are you doing?" **  
**  
"I... enjoyed our Friday evening together. I thought you might like to continue?" Stahma leaned in, cupping Kenya's jaw with one hand and pinning back her shoulder with the other.

"You said this was dangerous."

Stahma's breath brushed Kenya's lips as she spoke, and though her eyes shone with a bashful kindness, her grin flashed like the fangs of snake before it took hold of its prey. "It's only dangerous if Datak finds out."

Kenya's breath caught in her throat. Cold teeth played at the perimeter of her mouth, and her lips parted almost involuntarily.

 _Almost._  
Resisting was pointless when Kenya's entire body pleaded for more rather than less; when tongue found priority in close mingling rather than distant words; and the nervous knot in her gut settled into a building heat that crept up through her hands and burned at the surface.

As she drew back, Stahma's teeth cut over the warm curve of Kenya's lip, and Kenya's eyes flashed open like the shutter on a camera.

 _Snap._ Lilac irises glowing beneath snow-dusted lashes. Pale skin radiating under fluorescent lights. Moist lips closing in on themselves and resting mere centimeter's from Kenya's own.

The picture shifted as Stahma's hand danced along the hem of Kenya's shirt and her head tilted in question.

"I've heard many myths about the human practice of delivering sexual pleasure with one's mouth."

"Uh, I-I wouldn't say that's exactly a myth."

"Do you mind if I give it a try?"

Kenya smiled weakly. "I don't think this is the ideal place for oral sex, Stahma."

"You wanted help with your Kastíthanu, didn't you? I'm sure I can teach you some while I'm at it."

A stunned blink was the only reaction Kenya could manage. "I have no idea how that's going to work," she whispered, "but go for it."

And 'go for it' Stahma most certainly did. Kenya's hands, driven by anticipation, fumbled in the rows of books behind her and then finally found the hard edge of the shelf. She wrapped her fingers around it, anchoring herself against whatever storm Stahma might bring. The Castithan's long fingers worked slowly at the button that fastened Kenya's jeans, then released it with a soft _pop._ Her gaze met Kenya's while her hands slid the thick cloth away and down until it gathered at Kenya's knees, leaving her chained by the immovable denim and at the complete mercy of Stahma.

The first touch of her tongue sent Kenya's nerves into a frenzy. Her muscles tensed involuntarily, and Stahma peered up in question.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just..." a wavering sigh shuddered past her lips. "I can't believe this is happening right now."

"You are _sweet._ " Stahma's tongue trailed along the opening of Kenya's pulsing center, then coiled back into her smiling mouth. "Very sweet."

While Kenya inhaled the bitter mustiness of untouched books, Stahma deftly traced foreign patterns and curves over Kenya's moist flesh. Kenya stuttered a short word of question, wondering not at the intent but instead the _method_ ; and though she could _feel_ Stahma's lips curving into a smile against her skin, she could did not dare to look down.

Contact ceased momentarily. Stahma breathed, "Didn't you want to work on your _Kastíthanu?-" and returned to her oral dance._

-Which was not a dance at all, Kenya realized, but a series of words that Stahma inscribed onto her body like a hymn. After the completion of each word, Stahma drew back just enough to be heard, and repeated it.

Each word probed _deeper_ , funneling inwards until Kenya's muscles began to close, convulse. Kenya mimicked each word as she heard it, but her speech soon became slurred and incoherent. Stahma's teeth grazed her skin.

Kenya wished, semi-consciously, that Stahma's tongue had been a needle and ink, and that the lines the Castithan now traced would forever remain.  
 ****  
Her body burned.

"Kenya, can you count to three?"

"...uh huh..."

"In Kastí. For me. I'll write. You speak."

"A-ave, kama, d-dun-e-"

One final jolt wracked her body and a deep scream bubbled in her throat, but Stahma's arm reached up to cradle her while her other hand muffled Kenya's cry.

"Shhh, shhh. We're still in a library, Kenya. I've got you. _Myeme tsa._ "

  


On the way out, Stahma's finger's hesitated on book titled _Understanding Your Body,_ then dropped back to her side as she continued on.

Kenya shuddered.

"Do you know your way back?" Stahma asked at the door, her eyes drifting out across the road.

"We're not walking back together?"

"Datak should not see us, Kenya."

"Oh. Yeah. I can manage." Stahma dipped her head and turned to leave. "Wait- Stahma, when will I see you again? I mean... outside of school?"

Stahma turned and pressed a chaste kiss to Kenya's lips, smiling as she drew away. "Tomorrow?"

"I'd love that."

 _Tomorrow,_ Kenya thought. _Tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emotional school week will ensue  
> i am EXCITED


	6. Clarity!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, Kenya really doesn't want to skip school.

The front door swung shut behind her, and the minted walls began to close in. One foot stepped in front of the other. Another. Another. _Step. Step. Step._ The wood protested. Kenya gave no notice. The hallway opened up into the apartment's central room, and the space danced as though being seen through a fire. Kenya crawled trance-like onto the couch. The cushions caved beneath her weight, and she reached for a pillow to pull up to her chest.

Approaching footsteps announced Amanda's presence.

"Where have you been?"

Kenya frowned. Was Amanda scolding her? She hadn't been out _that_ long, and she was fairly certain that she'd done nothing wrong as far as Amanda was concerned between this morning and now. "I'm sorry, I didn't think-"

Amanda pressed the back of her hand to Kenya's forehead and brushed her cheek with the other. "Oh, no, Ken, I'm not mad. You just look like shtako."

"Oh my God. If this is about Saturday, you can stop worrying. I feel fine. I'm happy as can be."

"But do you feel sick?"

"I feel a little dizzy. I haven't eaten yet today."

Amanda pursed her lips. "Kenya, I think you have a fever."

"Are you sure that's not a side effect of being eaten out by a Castithan?"

Amanda blinked. Stood. Walked into the kitchen. "I'm going to make you something to eat," she called over her shoulder. "But if you don't feel better by tonight, you're staying home tomorrow. I'm gonna be too busy to come and get you if you keel over in class tomorrow. We're not taking any chances." There was a long pause. Kenya heard the refrigerator door pop open and hum, and then Amanda sighed. "Kenya, for your sake, I'm really hoping you didn't pick up some kind of Votan virus or STD or something."

"Shtako, that can happen?!"

"I don't know! Probably!" The refrigerator door swung shut, and the stove cackled to life.

"Hey, Amanda?"

"Mmhmm?"

I'm sorry for being such a pain this weekend."

A short laugh bubbled across the apartment.

"I've been taking care of you for ten years, Kenya. I don't think you need to start apologizing now."

 

The clock next to Kenya's bedside flashed 4:36 when she woke on Monday morning. Shivers wracked her body, and she instinctively pulled the sheets tighter up to her neck.

Her head ached.

 _It's the cold,_ she told herself. _It's cold this morning and I haven't gotten much sleep yet. I'll be fine in a few hours._

But sleep evaded her, and when she opened her eyes again, the clock blinked back. 4:40.

 _Shtako._  
She heaved herself out of bed, sauntered into the bathroom, and pulled the switch on the light. She cringed and rubbed her temples.

The face staring back at her was so colorless that she could've passed for a Casti. There was no way Amanda would let her go to school in this state.

On any other day, Kenya would've gladly taken the excuse to stay home. Give her some night-time cough medicine and a dark room and she'd easily sleep away her illness- and then some. She'd take an extra day or two to recover, "Just in case." Amanda would swipe her across the head with a magazine and tell her to get off her ass and get to class. And Kenya would, eventually, oblige.

But today? Today was the last day of Datak Tarr's suspension.

The last possible day she and Stahma could have alone.

If Kenya dressed and ate fast enough, she might be able to sneak out before Amanda even woke up.  
Kenya resolved to do this.

-And failed.

Amanda was already at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal when Kenya walked out of her room and made a beeline for the door.

"Oh no you don't," Amanda said, pointing Kenya in the other direction. "Back to bed. Now. And stay there."

 

 

At nineteen hundred hours, the doorbell rang once. Kenya buried her head deeper into her pillow and waited to hear Amanda's voice greeting their visitor.

She didn't hear it.

The doorbell rang again.

Frustrated, Kenya rolled over and shouted to her sister.

"Amanda, someone is at the door!"

"I'm in the shower!" Kenya groaned, but did not reply. "Kenya, please get the door!"

"Fine!" After forcing herself onto her feet, Kenya wrapped a blanket around her body emerged from the dimness of her room. The walk to the door felt long and unbearable. Each step was one too many and her body _longed_ for bed, for sleep, for a hot cup of tea and a hundred lemon-honey cough drops or maybe a bath and-

Her fingers encircled the cold doorknob, twisted, and pulled.

Stahma's eyes fell, and her smile deepened. "Hello, Kenya."

"Stahma, I-" Kenya stepped further back into the doorway, ducking out of the kiss that Stahma had aimed to place on her cheek. "I'm actually very... sick right now. You probably don't want to touch me."

"Of course I want to-"

"No, Stahma." The Castithan opened her mouth and tilted her head in an expression of confusion. Kenya was... laughing. Her words were firm and her intent was clear but she was ducking her head and pulling those chapped lips into a tired smile and she was _giggling_ like a little girl. "Stahma, I'm sick. I'm not going to fuck you when I'm already sneezing and coughing in my own food, ya know?"

Stahma's lips became rigid and her eyes darted from side to side. The angle of her body shifted away from the door. "You've insulted me. I need to go home."

"No, Stahma, wait-" Kenya cleared her throat and pulled the blanket tighter around her body, shrugged. "We can just, you know, hang out. Like normal friends." The tension between them eased slightly, and Kenya could see Stahma hesitating to leave. The decision was written across her lavender eyes, and for a moment, the mask slipped, and Kenya thought Stahma looked scared.

Scared.

Scared of spending time with her in a way that wasn't purely sexual.

Kenya offered a gentle smile, resisting the urge to cringe at the jolt of pain that shot through her head. "Please? Play a board game with me?"

"I've never played a... human board game," Stahma confessed. Kenya beckoned her into the house and shut the door behind them both. "Though I have played games of a similar format with some of my cousins."

"Do you mind if we do this in my room? My head kinda hurts and I'd rather be in the dark."

"I don't mind."  
  
After tossing her blanket onto the bed and gesturing for Stahma to sit, Kenya lifted the shades on her windows to let in just enough light for visibility. Rubbing one side of her head, she lowered herself onto her knees and peered under the bed. The boxed chess game, along with some books and CDs, had been stuffed there when she'd moved in at the start of the summer. "You're never going to use them, Kenya," Amanda had said with a roll of her eyes and that tired sigh. "Throw them out. We don't need clutter." Kenya had insisted- just for the sake of insisting- that she _would_ use them.

Of course, she hadn't really believed her own words. Kenya had never been any good at chess, and she almost never read anymore.

She pulled out the box, dropped it on the bed, and curled up with a pillow opposite of Stahma.

"Chess," she announced. Stahma raised her eyebrow.

"...Chess?" Stahma repeated, watching as Kenya began to set up the board. The brunette broke into a fit of coughs, scattering the already-placed pieces. White hands moved quickly to pick up the spilled pieces and reposition them on the grid.

"You've never played it before, right?" Stahma shook her head. "Well, I'll just have to explain it to you! And, you know, probably win."

 

Half an hour later, Kenya was _not_ winning. In her head, she was able to blame it on the way Stahma's nimble fingers coiled around her queen and slid it across the board. She blamed it on the subtle smirk that threatened Stahma's lips when she contemplated her next move. She blamed it on the neckline of Stahma's dress, the way it dipped and fell to form a curving "V" from her clavicle to her navel. Kenya saw the way the fading window light spun over Stahma's sun-pale skin, how the apples of her cheeks seemed to glow like pearls, and Kenya blamed it on that. She blamed it on the soreness of her throat, the throbbing in her head, the fluctuation of her body temperature and the thickness on her tongue. She popped another ibuprofen, and she blamed it on the drugs.

But Stahma was good.

"I don't get it," Kenya said at last. "You've had me in check like ten times. There's no way you've never played before."

Stahma's teeth caught in the light and her eyes fell to her lap. The glittering dust formed a halo around her bowed head. "When I was younger, my cousins and I did play a Castithan game based on the same strategy. It was called... 'Marusha.' I was actually quite good at it," she confessed.

A gasp of mock astonishment and betrayal escaped Kenya's gaping mouth. "You cheater!" She reached across the board, intending to give Stahma a playful shove, but her knee caught on the board and sent their remaining pieces flying across the bed and floor. Stahma froze, shock registering on her features. Amanda's voice approached from down the hall.

"Hey, Kenya, who was at the door earlier?" A blonde head of hair peered through the door and found its question answered. "Oh. Uhm, Stahma, Kenya has the flu. This probably isn't the best time for you to-"

 _"Amaaaanda,"_ Kenya groaned, throwing herself back against the heap of pillows. "We're just playing _chess._ "

"Amanda, your dear sister already made it clear to me that copulation would be unwise given her current state of health," Stahma added gently. "But we do appreciate your concern."

"I'm... glad," Amanda said, then nodded to reaffirm her statement and backed slowly out of the room.

Rising from the bed, Stahma moved to pick up the scattered chess pieces from off the floor. Kenya sighed.

"Don't bother, Stahma. It's getting dark. I'm tired. My head hurts. I can pick it up tomorrow."

For a moment, Stahma stood with pursed lips and wandering eyes, a plastic black knight still tucked in her hand. Then she bent down, placed it in the box, and delivered a forced smile. "I'll see you soon," she murmured. Kenya rolled her eyes and indicated the empty space beside her.

"C'mon, Stahma," she whined. "Come keep me warm. I promise I'll try not to cough on you."

And to both Kenya's surprise and delight, Stahma did not protest.

"Okay. I'll stay."

Kenya closed her eyes. She heard soft footsteps, the rustling of sheets, and then felt the warmth of another body against her back. In an attempt to minimize the space between herself and Stahma, Kenya repositioned herself so that she was facing Stahma, then curled herself up against the Casti girl's chest. A hand grazed Kenya's shoulder, flitted across her spine, then finally settled at her lower back. Stahma's chin rested over the top of Kenya's head.

"Go to sleep," she whispered. "I'm here. I got you."

 

When Kenya woke from her slumber some few hours later, there was a note on the pillow beside her, scrawled in black pen and small lettering.

_I'll be back tomorrow. Feel better.  
-Stahma_

Kenya could still see the words on the back of her eyelids when she drifted back into sleep.


	7. Neither Here, Nor There (Hands Tangled Through Hair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stahma is stressed. Amanda cries. Kenya takes a trip to the doctor.

  
Tuesday morning passed in much the same way as Monday morning had, save for the fact that Kenya wasn't nearly a anxious to get out of bed. Her body felt far more normal by comparison to the previous day. Pain did not burn the perimeter of her skull; waves of heat and searing cold did not battle for power in the depth of her core. But she was, nonetheless, fatigued, and her throat felt thick and raw. She slept until eleven, showered until twelve, and then napped on the sofa until she was interrupted by a rapping at the door.

It was, unsurprisingly, Stahma, cloaked in thick white garments and thin mauve lips. Eyes darted rapidly from side to side, air raced to and from her sightly parted lips.

She placed a kiss on Kenya's cheek, and, despite yesterday's show of protests, Kenya did not object. Then, without further prologue, Stahma eased a neatly bound folder into Kenya's hands.

"I don't want you to fall behind," Stahma warned, her voice too cold for the concern implied by her words. "I need to head back to lunch. I told Datak I had to run an errand for a teacher, but he'll be suspicious if I'm not there for the second hour. I'm sorry if I woke you."

And then she was gone again.

Kenya took the folder to her room and flipped through its contents- school work, dated and organized in the order of her classes. Additionally, she found hand written notes from the classes she shared with Stahma, and photocopied notes from those that she didn't.

She tossed the folder to the end of her bed, popped a cough drop, and slid back under the covers.

 

Amanda got home some three hours later. Kenya was awake when her sister returned and was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of over-sweetened tea. Amanda regarded her with a smile.

"Hey. I'm going out for an interview at the Votan resource center in a couple minutes. Do you want me to swing by the school and pick up any of your missing work?"

Kenya rolled her eyes.

"Stahma dropped it all off during lunch," she deadpanned.

"Huh. All of it?"

"All of it. And notes."

"Kenya, you have my permission to marry her."

"Oh my God, Amanda. Shut up."

 

There was a knock on the door again at 19:20. Behind the door was, once more, Stahma. Her expression conveyed tension equal to that of her earlier visit.

Kenya let her in wordlessly and, after Stahma took the liberty of hanging her cloak up in the hall, led Stahma back to her room.

"So what, are you gonna live here now?" Kenya teased, pushing the door shut. Stahma's lace-gloved hands immediately began to shuffle through the folder they'd delivered earlier, then snapped it shut in a show of disapproval.

"You haven't started on your work yet. And I need to be home in two hours."

"Stahma, I've been sleeping. I'm sick. I can do the work during my FOs on Wednesday or Thursday or... whenever."

"You're going to fall behind."

"What does it matter to you?" Kenya asked- lightly, bitterly, implying that the question was only rhetorical. She flounced onto the bed, and her red cotton t-shirt blended into the crimson sheets. She looked smaller somehow; tired; more childlike. Stahma's irises burned like white fire and melted the icy mask of composure that coated her face.

"Because if I'm risking this much to come see you, I need to know that it's worth it!"

The intensity of her outburst stunned even her own tongue, which she was quick to redirect to words of soft persuasion.

But she had, nonetheless, been heard.

"I'm... sorry," Kenya murmured after a wave of silence. "I'll do the work. I'll... I'll start right now."

Stahma's lips formed a rigid line. She nodded. "Thank you, Kenya."

"You'll stay?"

"I'll stay."

"Do you... want anything to drink? Are you hungry?" Kenya gathered the used tissues from her bed and stuffed them in the trash. The pens from her desk were retrieved, and the folder was spread out before her atop the red sheets.

"No, thank you. May I braid your hair while you work?"

Kenya smiled.

"Of course."

 

And that's how Amanda found them late into the evening: Kenya cradled in Stahma's legs, ink spotting her lips where the pen had touched; A notebook at Kenya's fingertips; Determination ebbing from her pale eyes; Stahma's hands winding slowly, like dying clockwork, through Kenya's dark tresses.

The negative, Amanda thought, spoke louder than the positive. Mindless chatter did not taint the silence; nervous smiles and shaking palms did not pollute the calm. And despite the impact the scene had on Amanda's composed features, it did not feel in any way _eventful._

It felt like a part of just any other day.

When Stahma became aware of Amanda's presence and lifted her gaze to meet Amanda's own, a curious look played across her face, and then died.

Amanda left. Stahma's awareness shifted to the clock on Kenya's nightstand.

"I need to leave," she stated, easing out from behind Kenya. Kenya scurried to her feet and shut her book.

"I'll see you out!"

 

At the door, Stahma kissed Kenya's hands and whispered in her ear.

"Your sister was crying. Go to her."

 

Nothing scared Kenya more than seeing Amanda cry.

Surviving the volge attack during the L.E.W. had left Kenya wet-eyed and sleepless for weeks. Mom's death had broken a part of Kenya's spine that had never quite healed right. The decision to leave Hunter Bell struck a fear in Kenya's heart even larger and more overwhelming than the infamous Arks.

But all of that was nothing compared to the first time she ever heard Amanda crying.

In her earliest years, Kenya had held an almost god-like view of her sister. Amanda was supposed to be invincible. Amanda was supposed to take care of her. Amanda was supposed to be _strong_ and _brave_ so that Kenya wouldn't have to be. What Kenya hadn't seen was the little fourteen year old girl who was scared to death and just doing her best to survive. Kenya hadn't seen that the only difference between Amanda and herself was that Amanda held herself together better out of necessity, and for the sake of her younger sister.

And sometimes, Kenya still had trouble remembering that.

Now, she braced herself before entering into the kitchen and mentally readied herself for a sight that never got any easier.

She didn't expect to see the closed smile dawning upon Amanda's lips, and the turbulent calm clouding her gaze. But sure enough, moisture dripped down her red cheeks, and tears brimmed at her eyes.

Kenya had never seen Amanda cry tears of happiness, but she thought this was as close as she'd ever come.

"Manda? You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I just-" she wiped her eyes with the paper towel that'd been balled in her hand. "I'm fine, Kenya."

"Don't give me that bull. What's up?"

Amanda shook her head, reaching out to admire the braidwork in Kenya's hair with an honest smile. "It's been a long time," she said. Preventing any further questions, she cleared her throat and changed the subject. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Kenya said, "definitely better. But I'm, like, developing these weird patches of flaking skin. I've got one on my stomach, on my shoulder, my hip-"

Amanda's laughs warmed the kitchen.

"Okay, that's enough. You're going to the doctor tomorrow. No arguments."

It wasn't until later that night that Kenya realized the promise Stahma hadn't made. For the first time in a week, it was a question and not a promised that lingered in her dreams.

_Tomorrow?_

 

The Doctor's office was cold.

Empty.

Uninviting.

It felt like everything her cozy, cluttered room hadn't been for the last three days, and the very shock of that had Kenya's nerves tense and edged. Her fingers curled under the white hexagonal chair until the color of her knuckles matched that of the seat.

The clock ticked violently, approaching but unseen. _Tick, tick, tick._ Save for Kenya, Amanda, and the three Indogenes working behind the desk, the room was unoccupied. It was so stark, so sterile that the interruption of noise felt dirty, and when a white-suited man sitting behind the desk droned, "Bek," Kenya felt sinful for having heard it. The figure that appeared- 'Bek,' presumably- approached Kenya with short, clumsy steps and hard but downturned eyes. The hands that gripped the rectangular scanning device with which Kenya's body was then screened were covered with lurid, off-white skin and a broken hexagonal pattern. From Bek's scalp ran two thin, wiry braids of brittle black hair, the same material that graced the woman's brow in two short wisps.

"Kenya Rosewater?" she asked with evident disinterest. Kenya nodded. "This way."

As the two sisters followed Bek down the hall, Kenya's tongue worked in circles trying to find an appropriate question. From this position, she could see the pink stain stretching across the nape of Bek's neck. Kenya knew (though perhaps did not understand) that the answers she wanted were really not meant for her to have. Yet in the end, curiosity won out.

"Excuse me- are you an Indo-Sapien?"

Amanda's pointed elbow sought purchase in Kenya's side, and Bek's curt response disregarded the question completely.

"This room. Doc Jeb will be with you shortly."

A frustrated sigh followed the click of a closing door. Amanda's face was engraved with a worried frown, and her fingertips fidgeted with the end of her braid.

"Kenya, that woman probably had mixed blood."

"She's a halfsie? Then what's the big deal?"

"They aren't exactly-"

A sharp knock cut off Amanda's reply, and then the door swung open to reveal the Indogene doctor whom Bek had called 'Jeb.' She gestured towards the examination table and made a few notes on her clipboard before turning to greet the two sisters.

"Doc Jeb," she said, extending her hand towards the now table-sitting brunette. Kenya shook it and smiled. "I'm going to perform a short physical exam before I collect any samples. Could you start off by telling me what symptoms you've been experiencing?"

As the Doctor examined her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her skin, her lungs, Kenya summarized the ailments from which she'd suffered within the past week. The Doctor nodded in acknowledgement once Kenya had finished. "Is this the flaking skin you're referring to?" the Doctor asked, examining a small patch directly above Kenya's right elbow. The patch itself would've been, if laid flat, no larger than Kenya's palm, and held a white so pure in color that it matched the flesh of her Indogene doctor. But unlike the doctor's skin, the patch on Kenya's arm was cracked without uniform, and peeled up at the edges.

"Yep, that's one of them."

"When did you first notice it?"

"Uh... yesterday morning."

"And can you feel it? Does it itch, tingle, ache...?"  
"Actually, I... I can't feel anything at all," Kenya said. "It's numb."

Clipboard in lap, the doctor sank back into the chair and considered her notes once more. She hesitated, glanced up at Amanda, and then finally said, "Have you had any... close contact with a Castithan lately?"

Kenya could only blink and stare, dumbfounded. She shared a desperate look with Amanda, who shifted in her seat and said, "We just moved here from a human colony, Doc. Any contact she's had with Castis lately is relatively close compared to any contact she's had before."

Doc Jeb raised her eyebrows. "It's highly unlikely that she contracted this only in passing," she said. "I'll bring these samples back to the lab for confirmation, but I can tell you right now that what we're looking at is a classic case of CMCICD- more commonly known as the Cold Glue Flu. Don't ask me why. You humans came up with the name; I just provide a diagnosis. CMCICD is contracted almost exclusively through sexual contact with Castithans. Adolescent humans are especially vulnerable. The body is actually less susceptible to the disease before puberty and during late adulthood. Essentially, it's just the process the body goes through when trying to fight off unfamiliar Castithan bacteria, and, as I'm sure you know, it can get ugly."

A long sigh slipped from Amanda's lips. She kneaded her temples. "So... What's the best course of action?"

The doctor smiled dryly. "Discolored and flaking skin is the second to last stage of CMCICD. I'll write up a prescription for some painkillers to help you through the last stage. The skin will clear up on it's own with a couple hot baths and some lotion. The good news is that once you've had CMCICD, you'll never get it again."

"Never?" Kenya repeated, grinning.

"Never," the doctor confirmed. "Though for the sake of your mental well-being, I'm obliged to advise against continuing to engage in any sexual activity with Castithans or any race other than your own. If there are no more questions, I'll see you both to the door."

 

Back in Amanda's roller, the air hung between the two sisters like a thick wall of glass, shattered only by Amanda's occasional sigh and finally: "You can't say I didn't tell you so."

"Whatever." Kenya brought her knees up to her chest and rested her chin between them. "I hope you don't really expect me to take doc's 'advice.'"

"Oh, Kenya. I don't love what you're doing with Stahma, but I don't want you to listen to anyone's... segregationist bullshtako, okay?"

"Okay."

"But God, Kenya. I fucking _told_ you so!"


	8. Rules Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenya is resurrected, and Stahma falls from glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for domestic violence. Technically unbeta-d, as always. Shout out to Caroline ([ Pyrotechnician](http://pyrotechnician.tumblr.com)) and Maddy ([ GeeksAndAthletesUnite](http://geeksandathletesunite.tumblr.com)) for listening to me ramble about this all the time, providing me with inspiration, and for reading unfinished portions of this fic. You guys rock.

Thursday: Fluorescent lights, linoleum floors. Foreign chatter, dismissive eyes. Tirra's superficial grin.

"Look who's back from the dead! Where've you been?"

"Dead?" Kenya offered. Tirra gave her a playful shove.

"Funny."

Kenya thought she'd be grateful for the return of Tirra's presence. She thought that the reassumed friendship would make her feel more at ease, more at home within the school. And yet, the plasticity of Tirra's smile, which had been so easy to ignore only a week before, was now painfully obvious. Her words did not sound kind; they sounded desperate, with an unconcealable edge that cut at the inside of her lip and left traces of blood trailing after every sentence.

But these things she saw in Tirra were not new.

_When had it become so hard to look past them?_

-And so even as Kenya smiled and agreed to hangout before the rescheduled dance on Friday, she accepted that, for reasons she could not understand or control, this short-lived friendship was nearing its end.

During history class, the stench of tobacco clouded Kenya's senses. Every now and again, the fog would clear and she'd blink, mumble, register the fact that Mr. M was speaking to her, and she'd answer in a soft stutter- "U-uh, yeah. My missing work is... uh... r-r-right here..."

He accepted the work with a half-nod, then puffed his cigar and ambled back to the front of the room.

But always, _always,_ the presence of a certain pale-eyed Athena sitting at the back of the room sliced through the smokey vale and kept her fingers gripped red and tight around the crushed tip of a pencil. Their eyes caught once. White teeth gleamed.

Kenya's cheeks flushed red.

"I don't like the way she looks at you," Tirra said with an exaggerated shudder. "I dunno, man. Castis are gwoking scary. I wouldn't want one looking at me like I'm gonna be her lunch. I mean, don't they kind look like... vampires?"

"Tirra, I don't think she wants to drink my blood."

"Dude, vampires don't drink blood. They eat people. I know these things. I took a class on Old World mythology three years ago, okay?" She rolled her eyes and shoved her notebook into her bag. "Look, when you mess with a Castithan, someone gets hurt. That's just how it goes."

 

As Kenya exited the classroom, her eyes sought out Stahma.

But she was already gone.

 

It was almost the end of the day when Kenya walked into health class. Fifth period, back row. Christie was there waiting, and her lips spread into an open grin when Kenya entered the room.

"Hey!" Christie said, beaming. "I missed you in Indo Tech. Where've you been?"

Kenya slipped her bag off her shoulder and settled into desk. "Uh, just sick," she said. Her left hand instinctively traveled to the dry patch on her opposite arm. Christie's eyes followed the movement, and she clamped one hand over her mouth.

"Oh my God. I know what that is. I got that when Alak and I first started..." Christie blushed and shook her head. "Oh gosh, Kenya. Is it someone I know?"

"Maybe?"

"Well, it's not Alak. Lanya?"

"No!"

"Datak?"

"What? Christie, I would never-"

"Stahma?" Christie tried, eyebrows raised. Kenya shifted her eyes to the front of the classroom, and Christie let out a short gasp. "Stahma?! Kenya, you're- Oh God. Oh Rayetso. Aren't you scared that Datak will find out? Kenya!"

"Shhhh! Christie, you can't tell anyone!"

"I won't, I won't! I promise."

"Promise?"

_"Promise."_

 

And thus passed the day. The walk home was slow and lonely. Kenya had hoped against hope that perhaps Stahma would be outside waiting for her after her last class, but instead she glimpsed the back of Stahma's figure moving down the road, arm in arm with Datak. Kenya inhaled deeply, straightened her shoulders, and started down the road that would lead her home.

"And she said nothing to you all day?" Amanda later asked at the dinner table, her mouth half-full with food. Kenya's fork tapped absently against her empty plate.

"Nothing," she repeated. Silence fell, warm and stagnant. Amanda poured herself a second glass of wine.

"I got the job," she said. "At the Votan resource center. They want me to start off working in the daycare program- Which is an awful idea, seeing as I am absolute shtako with kids."

Kenya grinned. "No! You raised me!"

"Uh uh. I grew up _with_ you. And look how you turned out."

"Bitch!"

"I'm just teasing," Amanda laughed, laying her fork down on the table and leaning back with a satisfied smile. Kenya cocked her head curiously.

"I didn't know that the Votan resource center had a day care," Kenya said.

"It's funded by donations and town taxes. They take care of mixed bloods and other children whose families are too poor or too busy to take care of them themselves. They have a separate housing facility for those without actual homes. It's a great program. I just don't know how much help I'll actually be."

Silence once more. Kenya's eyes drifted down to her lap, and her hands followed.

"There's a dance on Friday," she said after a moment. "They rescheduled it."

"Oh. That's good."

"I told Tirra I'd hang out with her beforehand."

"You should invite Stahma, too," Amanda

"No. No. Tirra _hates_ Stahma, and Stahma..." her mind fled across the white hood retreating down the road, the delicate fingers curled around Datak's elbow, the slender figure slithering farther and farther from her reach. "Well, you know... Datak."

"It's gotta be hard for her, leading a double life. I know you wanna be the hero in all this- hell, even I want you to. But Kenya, she's cheating. She's in a committed relationship." Amanda smiled weakly and leaned forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Kenya's ear. "She obviously cares about you. Let her figure it out. If she doesn't choose you, let her go. Okay?"

"Okay."

Amanda's hand dropped to Kenya's shoulder. As she spoke, her eyes and voice hardened, and her brow furrowed in an expression of the utmost seriousness.

"But Kenya, if she lays a single hand on you, you get help. Or you come to me and I'll get help. Do you understand?"

The laugh that sprang up through Kenya's throat was sharp, painful. It came out so much like a sob that she had to clamp her mouth over it half way, and close her eyes to compose herself. "Stahma would never-"

"-but what if she did?"

Kenya nodded, reluctantly. "I understand."

 

Friday: Fluorescent lights, linoleum floors. Foreign chatter, dismissive eyes. Stahma's hard hip digging into Kenya's side as she's pushed against the wall of an empty classroom.

A whisper frosting her ear:

"You told Christie."

Kenya's eyes widened and her breathing hitched. "But Christie isn't a threat."

"You stupid little human! Christie already told Alak. Of course Christie was a threat! _Banggo!_ "

Kenya plunged deep into Stahma's raging lips, and Stahma's body went slack against hers. Tooth and tongue scraped desperately, fleetingly, as though the separation of the last forty eight hours had been as many _years,_ and each day in between had been one too many. Kenya thought back on Amanda's words- _I know you wanna be the hero in all this- _and had Kenya not been otherwise occupied, she might've laughed.__

 _ _She didn't want to be the fucking hero, nor did she want to be saved. She just wanted_ this,_ again and again and _again._ She wanted Stahma hot and writhing beneath her without having to keep one eye on the clock or on the lookout. She wanted to plant kisses on the vast terrain of Stahma's body, to root each touch in purpose and ownership and words of _mine, mine, mine._

She wanted Stahma's hands making slow work of her hair, lacing one strand over the other, _one strand over the other,_ and repeat. She wanted to wash away the mauve paint that coated Stahma's lips and see that seamless, pale mouth turned in an upwards bow because of her, her, _her._

When Stahma pulled back, every ripple of anger had faded into the smooth surface of her cold composure. Her eyes grazed over Kenya's limp figure, and dismissed it with a upwards flick.

"Datak will be out this evening," she stated dryly. "I'm to meet up with him at the dance. I'll be at your house until then."

Stahma was swept back into the open hallway before Kenya could protest; and she was left, back to the wall, with one finger tracing over the swollen bottom lip where Stahma's teeth had staked claim.

The rest of the day was spent distantly ravishing Stahma's unclothed body during the routine _fuavanos,_ and watching the clock in between. Though Kenya sensed that Stahma was fully aware of Kenya's ever-present eyes, the Casti girl did not once match Kenya's gaze to her own. This was, presumably, done out of mercy rather than punishment; For if Stahma had shot so much as one heated smirk in Kenya's direction, Datak would have taken notice, and her game of I-Spy would be over.

The end of sixth block churned into the present, slow and grinding and then coming to a halt as Kenya stood, arms pressed across her chest, outside the emptying school. The dust spun over the distant road, catching in the afternoon sun. Kenya stood in shade by a young, gnarly maple whose leaves had already taken a scarlet hue. She followed those branches and leaved down to where their golden tips pointed to a waiting, white, sunlit figure. Kenya offered out her hand; and instead of taking it (as had been Kenya's intention,) Stahma kissed it tenderly, then captured Kenya's wrist with her own angular hand and guided her out from the shadows.

"People are whispering," Stahma said, so quietly that Kenya thought it might be a manifestation of her own paranoia. But if it was, it was a paranoia shared by her companion; for Stahma walked three paces ahead with her eyes outwards and her attention ambiguously directed.

"Then why bother being so careful?"

Stahma's words drifted back on the autumn breeze, her lips having barely moved. "Because there might still be hope."

This puzzled Kenya. Hope, to her, was the possibility of an end to Stahma's relationship with Datak; of a more consistent promise and a less careful stare. Stahma spoke of hope as though it meant much the opposite; Hope, when heard from Stahma's tongue, meant continued secrecy and constant danger, a constant edge. Did Stahma's idea of happiness really include the continuation of this game? That was not happiness! This was a temporary limbo in which Kenya hung only for lack of a better option; because Stahma was elegant and tall and her eyes were clear and when she walked she swayed like a lioness and when she spoke her tongue curled over and around teeth with a snake-like quickness and when she was deep in thought, her hands furled and unfurled like morning-touched lilies.

She hung on because if Stahma was one to sin, Kenya could not possibly object to being the object of her temptation.

She hung on because for the last two weeks- however sporadically- Stahma had made her happy.

Tension and desire frayed the ends of Kenya's nerves as she walked, and grew only stronger as she and Stahma turned into streets more obscure, more quiet than the last.

"Have you missed me?" Stahma asked in a voice that suggested she already knew the answer. Kenya whimpered.

"Yes. Did you miss me?"

Stahma inhaled, and her pace faltered just enough for Kenya to catch up and witness the spread of a crescent smile across Stahma's face.

"I did enjoy my previous visits with you," she said carefully. She paused as though perhaps she had meant to add something onto that, but no more words came, and Kenya pushed the matter no further.

The house was dim when the girls entered. The hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant shuffling from Amanda's room were the only things that broke the silence; And so, taking this hint, Kenya and Stahma retreated quietly to Kenya's room. The door clicked. The room was stagnant, suffocating. Stahma's bottom lip hung low. Her eyes captured Kenya.

And Kenya simply stood.

Though Kenya's wish had been to find Stahma limp and writhing beneath her, it soon became clear that Stahma had her own carefully measured desires. Kenya's cotton and denim fell away at Stahma's hands. Stahma demanded, "Come closer," and watched with approving eyes as Kenya's bare form stepped into the window's illumination. Fingertips traced an unbroken path down Kenya's neck, around each soft swell of her breast, and stopped to allow dry lips to follow the same path with peppered kisses. Kenya's body trembled; her mind ran numb. She resisted every instinct to cover herself, to curl up, to hide under sheets and in darkness; because in this light, with Stahma's eyes wandering over every inch of unclothed flesh, she felt vulnerable in a way she'd only felt once before.

That time, she'd been lying on Hunter's bed with bruising stripes across her back and the metal tang of blood in her mouth.

Stahma threaded her hand through Kenya's, smiled up at her and hummed: "Pretty human."

And Kenya felt...

_safe._

Stahma's tongue slid across the pointed tips of Kenya's breasts, and her hands traveled to the small of Kenya's back. The slightest bit of pressure caused Kenya to gasp and lose her footing. She fell willingly into Stahma's arms- arms that carried her to the bed and lay her down with the utmost care.

The time that followed could not possibly have lasted long enough; And so Kenya wished, again and again, to spend eternity under the sharp bite of teeth that begged _mine,_ and rocking in the rhythmic dance that promised _yours._

_Yours._

Yet time has a way of moving fast when one wishes it would only stop. Some hours later while Kenya planted lazy kisses on Stahma's face, Amanda swung open the door, rolled her eyes, and announced with a slight hitch, "You two are going to be late."

The clock confirmed this.

Kenya, red with blush, rolled over and buried her face under the sheets. Stahma sat up, smoothed out what little clothing she had on, and thanked Amanda profusely, who smiled weakly and added-

"Kenya, I'll meet you outside the school at twenty three hundred hours. I don't want you to walk home alone."

Once clean, dressed, and out the door, Kenya let out a long exhale and tried again to overcome the shame evident in her cheeks.

"God, that was embarrassing," she muttered. She was answered by a low laugh from the depths of Stahma's throat.

"You humans are so complex. I'm not sure I'll ever understand you."

"Stahma, we're really not that complex. And votans are way weirder."

The only response to follow this statement was silence. Having nothing to go on but the unreadable composure that so often haunted Stahma's face (and hardly even this; for the dark of the evening obscured her features, and Kenya could only guess at the shape that possessed them,) Kenya thought she may have offended her. She opened her mouth to apologize, but was quickly cut off.

"Does your friend Tirra know of our affair?"

"Tirra? I haven't said anything to her." Kenya's brow folded into a thick crease. "Shtako! Shtako shtako shtako! I was supposed to meet up with Tirra two hours ago! Shtako!" One glance up at Stahma's shadowed scowl told Kenya that her companion wasn't going to sympathize, and so she lowered her tone and said, "Sorry. Yeah. I don't think she knows."

Darkness, in any case, promotes feelings of dread. If Stahma had gone ahead to say, "Poor thing. Tirra is such a lovely girl. I wish we were closer," it would've doubtlessly possessed an eerie quality. This effect was doubled by Stahma's insistence on treating life as an unending game of poker. Thus, the shiver that rattled Kenya's spine would not have been undeserved even if Stahma's next words had not been so ominous.

But they were, and Kenya's body quaked.

"Kenya, I need you to promise me that no matter what happens after tonight, you won't try to get involved."

It was convenience more than agreement that prompted Kenya to say, "Yeah, of course," but her mind could not register or accept that which was implied by Stahma's request.

Real danger was too remote to even fathom.

Outside the school, Kenya paused to close her eyes and steady her breathing.

Stahma was gone by the time Kenya looked up.

She removed her jacket, slung it over her arm, and made her way to courtyard three.

Courtyard three was, by far, the largest courtyard in the school. Despite this (or rather, in addition to,) it was also almost-objectively the ugliest. Raw concrete, rather than grass, covered the ground. Only a small, slightly off-center dugout with vinyl siding served as a Castithan bath. Open tents made from various scrap cloths lined the northern wall. Under one of these tents was the DJ's station, which was occupied, currently, by a scruffy human boy in a grey hoodie. Cheap strings of neon lights ran around the sparse trees and over tents, flickering by fault rather than purpose. They captured the diverse features of Kenya's many classmates, some of which were all too recognizable. Music blared.

And there, at the edge of the crowd and clinging to Datak, was Stahma.

The light, crescent bruises on Kenya's neck were proof enough that she belonged to Stahma.

But there was nothing left on Stahma to indicate the reverse, and that very fact caused Kenya's plastered smile to drop.

She was little more than a slave to someone whose loyalties lay elsewhere.

She treaded deeper into the throng, keeping her hands tightly folded across her chest. The surrealness of the event was more overwhelming than the dance itself. Though the races seemed to blend more easily than they did during the school day, a clear distinction between groups was still present. If a spectacled Irathient ran his hand over the scaled arm of a golden-eyed Indogene boy, the exchange would only last a moment and would only occur because it was dark and music blared and that which the eye presently saw was prone to being forgotten. The laws of society were more easily bent on this one night; the chains of culture and tradition were more willingly strained.

Castithan women, with their hair twisted and pinned behind heavy hoods, hid behind their respective males. Those without such partners socialized among themselves in tight circles. The three Liberatas that joked at dipping their feet in the central bathing pit did not actually dare to do so. There were, of course, also evident groupings within each race; While a group of straight-haired, elegantly clothed Irathients stood near a handful of similarly dressed humans, the Irathient teens who had clung more closely to their roots lounged on the farthest side of the patio.

It should be noted that these separations between and within races and classes was not so glaringly obvious as described here. There was indeed some mingling amongst the Votans and humans, so much so that the typical student was unlikely to notice such separations at all. Ironically, Kenya (who had been raised in a colony far less inclusive than this) could see little else but these lines of division; For she had grown up to believe that beyond the walls of her childhood home, Votans and humans lived as equals, and thus treated each other as such. The evidence of her misconception had been clear since the day she arrived in New York.

And now, with her heart locked in the slender hands of a certain Castithan girl, that same misconception _plagued_ her.

The inevitable confrontation between Tirra and Kenya happened some ten or twenty minutes after Kenya had arrived. By then, the knot in Kenya's stomach had coupled itself with a building pressure in the front of her head. Her feet hurt (why had she chosen to walk all the way here in heels?) and the skin under her dress had begun to itch and she was highly, highly considering going home early. Two things prevented this, the first being her arrangement with Amanda to meet outside the school once the dance was over.

The second was Tirra's unannounced approach.

It was just a tap on the shoulder, so light that Kenya wouldn't have been able to feel it if her senses had been any duller. When she turned around, she was met with a teary-eyed Tirra with black mascara streaking down her hot cheeks and her arms crossed protectively over her upper body. Her blonde hair was tightly pulled upwards into a frayed bun but seemed to match the tightly coiled but ultimately dull effect of her tongue as she said, "You blew me off! You blew me off because you were with that arrogant Castithan slut, weren't you?"

"Wait, what?"

"You walked in an hour late at the exact same time as Stahma, and I've seen you making eyes at each other for the last two weeks, Kenya. It's... it's gross! And you _blew me off!_ "

Kenya's throat felt dry. Her hand shook. The string lights colored Tirra's face in such a clash of red and blue that it hurt to look at, and so Kenya moved her hands to shield her eyes and knead her temples. _Does your friend Tirra know of our affair?_

Kenya gritted her teeth and silently replied, _she sure as hell does now._

"Tirra, I'm sorry. Really. I was busy. I totally forgot." _Not making it any better,_ Kenya thought. She uncovered her eyes and glanced about desperately for a kinder face. For a moment, she could make out Stahma and Datak's faces in the crowd. Tirra's shrieking had caught Datak's attention, but it seemed Stahma was doing her absolute best to seem _un_ interested. "Tirra, calm down. I'm sorry. Isn't this a little bit of an overreaction?"

Tirra's features twisted into a scowl of disgust and disbelief, and her hands fell to her sides in constricted fists.

"You were the only friend I had left! You're no one here, Kenya. Who'll you have once Datak finds out you've been fucking his girlfriend?"

"Leave her alone, Tirra." The soft voice brushed over Kenya's shoulder with equal warmth and distaste. Kenya turned to see Christie's face in profile next to hers, and she smiled by way of thanks.

Tirra hesitated, than turned to leave after a final glare and an undirected, "You're no better than the rest of them."

Kenya released a long sigh and embraced the girl beside her. Christie's support, however unexpected, did wonders to ease the sickness in Kenya's gut, and her arms felt more like those of a friend than Tirra's ever had.

But the impending dread had not yet left Kenya's bones, and so she shivered and backed slowly out of the hug.

"Thanks," Kenya said, attempting the most heartfelt smile she could manage under the given circumstances. Christie shrugged.

"Tirra has a bit of a history with the Tarrs," she admitted. "A lot of stuff happened last year."

"Really?" Out of the corner of her eye, Kenya could see Tirra's blonde head bobbing in Datak's direction. Yet Kenya was so grateful for the company and distraction Christie provided that her mind could not register the full implications of a present interaction between Tirra and Datak, and thus Kenya led Christie further from the crowd and moved to sit by a flaking birch. "Tell me."

"Well..." Christie bit back a small grin and shook her head at some memory. She took a deep breath, said, "I'm not really sure how it started. But... Tirra and Datak had a _thing_ last year."

"Wait, was this _before_ Stahma and Datak got together?"

"No. Stahma and Datak were still together."

"Oh."

"Well, it's actually pretty common for a, uh, Castithan male to participate in sexual affairs outside of their own relationship," Christie said. She paused, then quickly added, "but Alak would never."

"But Datak..."

"Yeah. Datak. He did. And Tirra started getting a little too attached. She professed her love for him, asked him to run away with her, and Datak laughed at her. Tirra was pretty heartbroken."

"But how could you fall in love with an ass like Datak?" Kenya scoffed.

"I have no clue."

"So Tirra is mad because I'm doing the exact same thing that she did?

"Well, that's not the whole story. Last March, Tirra tried to break up Stahma and Datak's relationship by confronting him at the dance. Like, really loudly. In front of everybody. She thought Stahma would get mad and leave Datak or something, but Stahma just... laughed. Afterwards, Datak made sure that Tirra was shunned for attempting to destroy his honor. That's probably why Tirra was so eager to be your friend." Kenya's brow furrowed, and she canted her head. Christie bushed and ducked her eyes. "Well, you know, you're new..."

"Oh."

"Yeah. A lot happened last year," Christie said. "But this year is gonna be way better."

"Don't jinx it!" Kenya gasped as Christie's hand tapped against the concrete ground beside her. "That's not wood!"

"Aw, but old human traditions are so outdated. What, are you still stuck in the twenties?"

"Fun sucker."

"Aw, I'm sorry!" Christie stood abruptly and offered out her hand. "C'mon. Let's go dance."

And though Kenya was not much in the mood for dancing and her stomach churned and her head spun and her heart ached, she appreciated the gesture, and thus took Christie's hand to show her thanks.

They danced.

Not with any real enthusiasm, but with as much of it as they could muster. So quick was Christie to blend with her old classmates that Kenya soon found herself doing the same. The distraction of it was so needed, so easily welcomed, that Kenya finally found herself able to rest the eye that constantly sought out Stahma. But when the last song of the dance rolled around, that eye became active once more. The lights- now primarily red- flooded over the body of students, and caught on one student who, for a moment, resembled Stahma. But by the time Kenya had blinked and refocused her eye on the distant figure, their features had morphed into that of a student far less familiar. Kenya's heart sank.

"Where are Stahma and Datak?" She hissed. Christie gave a shaky shrug and shook her head.

"I guess they went home early."

However disappointing the possibility may have been, it _was_ plausible. Kenya consoled herself with the knowledge that a 'goodbye' would've been unlikely anyway. She sighed, crossed her arms, and settled to wait out the last song.

It wasn't even half way through that the rhythm of feet around her seemed to pause and stutter.  
A disruptive wave ran through the crowd and opened to reveal Alak, his face somehow whiter, his eyes wider than usual. The goosebumps on his bare arms didn't seem to be solely a result of the night's chill. His body faltered and his back bent forward, his hands grasped at his knees, burdened by the very words he carried- which surged now like a tsunami from his lips; first a mumbling panic, then terse and clear in intent.

"Christie- she- you both need to- Oh, Rayetso. Shtako- Stahma- Datak- he's gonna kill her. Oh God. He's gone totally mad, she's... in... serious danger. He has a knife."

Kenya heard the violent boom of her heartbeat, felt a sudden and irrepressible sting at the back of her eyes. The many ominous warnings Stahma had previously given rang high and clear in her head, then shattered under the pressure of significance. These shards fell in an aqueous state from glassy eyes, and reflected within them the salt-tainted regret and guilt that Kenya felt for not hearing the meaning in the words Stahma had been so desperate to make heard.

Oh, how Kenya had failed! How ignorant she had been! How blind had she been to danger so near? Why had she not _listened?_

 _Save her! Save her!_ Her body shook, screamed, and she lurched forward, grabbed Alak by the shoulders. She had to tell that he needed to- ask him why he hadn't-

Christie's soft and tremoring voice spoke first and guided Kenya swiftly back to reality. "We need to help her," she said, breaking off into an involuntary whine. "Alak, Kenya, we need to leave. Now."

The song had ended and students were already making their way out of the courtyard, moving in a thick stream out through a single door. Kenya felt a swell of anger towards them. Did they not feel the urgency of the situation?

Kenya felt it.

She felt it with every heavy intake of stale air, every impatient step across trodden ground. Images- vague, but colored by the pale pink of Castithan blood- darted across her eyes, and she heard shrill screams. Screams which, she realized, could only be her own, because Stahma would never allow herself to show such weakness.

And her mind's mere suggestion that Stahma might simply stand and take whatever it was that Datak was doing?

It only made Kenya's blood boil more.

Christie, led by Alak, grabbed Kenya's wrist. The three of them pushed through the throng. Having finally made it to the front, they bolted to the school's main doors and poured out into the street in a rush of madness. Something caught Kenya's arm and she turned to see Amanda, her gaze as firm as her grip on Kenya's shoulder and she demanded, "Where are you going?"

The response that snapped from Kenya's lips- "Stahma is in danger!-" was too sharp, too panicked, and far harsher than she'd intended. Yet the effect it took upon Amanda's features forgave the over-intensity. She dropped her hand, inhaled deeply.

"Stahma is in danger?" She repeated.

The three of them gave various efforts of confirmation. Alaka shoved his hands into his pockets. "Datak is hurting her. I don't know what to do."

The second it took for Amanda to make up her mind seemed to last all-too-long to Kenya. She watched as her sister chewed over and finally accepted this information, her jaw tightly clenched. She watched as Amanda's eyes, shrouded partially in darkness, flicked backwards across her shoulder, and then across the three figures standing in front of her.

And then she nodded.

"Kenya, I need you to go home."

" _What?_ I need to save her! You can't just let Datak _kill_ her!"

"I said _go home._ Alak can lead me to Stahma, and I'll make sure she's safe." Kenya opened her mouth, prepared to protest once more. Amanda placed her hands over Kenya's shoulders and ducked to meet her at eye level. "She's gonna be okay. I promise. But I need you to go home, and take Christie with you."

She agreed numbly, shrugging out of Amanda's grip and starting down the road that would lead her home. Behind her, Christie pleaded to Amanda, "Please let me come with you. I think this is my fault, and I need to be there." There was no further discussion after that, but Kenya imagined that Amanda had nodded her consent; for their was no further discussion to be heard, and no footsteps rushing to catch up with her own.

The darkness was far less ominous than it had been on the walk to the dance. Before, there has been a sense doom, a quality of danger lurking in the shadows. All that was gone. By now, the night's pregnant devil had already given birth to its fiendish child. There was nothing left for Kenya to fear but the destruction it'd been rumored to have already caused, and the eventual reveal of that destruction.

But oh, how she longed to see Stahma! She longed to know that, however battered and abused she may be, there was still hot air flowing to and from her lungs. She longed to know that her smile was still cool and her lips were still warm, even if covered by the syrupy pink of fresh blood. Anything, _anything_ would've been better than the haunting notion that Stahma might already be dead.

Eventually (and inevitably,) her thoughts turned to her mother. Kenya had been a small child when Mom died, and younger still when Dad disappeared. The few memories she'd hung onto in her earlier years had fled (or been intentionally pushed away) by the time she turned fifteen. Still, there was a number of insignificant details she could recall: The color of Mom's hair after she took a shower; The smell of Mom's favorite scotch (which, unsurprisingly, was quite similar to Amanda's own.) The list of personal details Kenya could remember went on in this manner, and there were so many of them that Kenya could almost claim to remember her mother.

But she could not remember her mother's face. She could not, no matter how hard she tried, hear her mother's voice. She was just the ghost in Kenya's head that was responsible for the other more tangible details of Kenya's early childhood.

Would she remember Stahma in this way? Ten years from now, would she be able to remember the way her lips had swelled from Stahma's dominating kiss, but not the smile of the girl who had caused it? Would she remember the light brush of a hand on that very first day, but not the words that had followed it?

Kenya wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her jacket, and forced herself to concentrate on the road ahead.

Home was of no comfort.

The emptiness of it screamed now not just for the presence of an ever-busy, ever-toiling Amanda, but for that of a smug and silent Stahma, her hands making work either of Kenya's pulsing center or Kenya's smooth and supple hair. Kenya's presence alone could not satisfy these screams. She attempted to busy herself with schoolwork, to make herself forget.

And failed.

She tried to sleep in hopes of waking up to find this chaos all done and solved.

And failed.

She tried eating. Showering. Drinking tea. Reading.

Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed.

It was in the midst of these activities (which she ran through again and again, hoping that _now_ she would be focused enough to work, _now_ she would be tired enough to sleep) that a restrained knock was heard from the door, and Kenya opened it to find a red-eyed Christie and Alak beside her, both holding haphazardly stuffed bags from which various bits of uncolored garments peered outwards. Christie dropped both of them and wrapped Kenya into a tight embrace. Kenya's eyes flicked back to Alak, whose voice shook as he said,

"Amanda wouldn't let us stay. She told us to bring Stahma's bags here."

"But S-Stahma... she's okay?" Kenya begged. Alak nodded.

"Yeah. I, uh, I think she's fine."

A sob wracked Christie's body and she squeezed Kenya one last time before releasing her and backing out to help Alak with Stahma's belongings. The three peers brought them to Kenya's room. They stood there for a moment, looking at the bags and then at each other. Kenya attempted to smile and say a word of thanks, but the silence was too heavy to break.

Alak took Christie's hand into his own.

They left.

Emptiness consumed the apartment once more.

The next time somebody came to the door, there was no knock. No warning. Just the click of an opening latch and the sound of a few careful footsteps announced the party's arrival.

At first, all Kenya could see was Amanda, with her braid torn loose at the end and a mixture of pink and red splattered across her arm. She stepped aside to attend to her weaker companion.

And there she was.

Time  
slowed.

For a moment Kenya could only _feel_ \- the anguish choking her throat; the way her stomach flipped and threatened to spill all contents; the numbness invading her body from the tips of her fingers; the pulse of blood above her ears. But then the world woke again; and she ambled forward, wrapped her arms around Stahma's stiff frame, and let out a cry that was muffled only by the rose and white cotton of Stahma's dress.

Stahma's eyes stared blankly ahead, absent of acknowledgement or recognition. Her arms hung loose at her sides. Translucent smears of blood surrounded a wound on her right shoulder which Amanda held with her own chalky and damask-stained hand. Stahma's dress was torn in multiple places: Sometimes with a ragged edge and limp pieces hanging in ruin; other times shown by a sharp line that slashed through all layers and revealed the condition of her skin underneath. Overcome by the need for proof of Stahma's continued existence, by the need to know that the wounds decorating her body had not run her dry, Kenya kissed her out of desperation. Stahma's lips obeyed more than responded. Her mouth was warm with the metallic bite of blood.

Kenya pulled back, ran wide eyes across the dull hollows of Stahma's own. Searched. Found nothing. Dipped her hand over the length of Stahma's neck. Found the tender swell of a bruise.

And stepped away to finally behold the mess of her divine lover, as holy now as she'd ever seemed, but with the lurid pink markings of another's sin tainting her natural halo.

Amanda's bottom lip, which seemed to stand firm solely for the sake of counteracting the shivers that wracked her hands, formed a hard line to match that her eyes and brow. She regarded Kenya with wordless apology.

Kenya's voice broke.

"Amanda?"

It wasn't the name she'd meant to say; Her tongue had been arched and ready to speak the  
name of she most afflicted, but had fallen last moment and had veered toward the safer path. The _other_ name felt too raw, too direct, too demanding to throw upon such a lifeless body.

Amanda shook her head, closed her eyes, and slowly guided Stahma through the door.

"Help her into the bath, Kenya. It'll be okay."


	9. Might Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stahma wakes in the Rosewater household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No time to proofread this morning! Apologies!

When Kenya woke to a clear and cool Saturday morning, she could almost blur her vision enough to ignore the deep bruise on the shoulder of the sleeping figure beside her.

She could almost sigh and grin and throw her arms around Stahma and sing out a high, _Goooood mooooorn-ing!_ Maybe then Stahma would rise and turn and admit that she'd already been up for hours. She'd kiss Kenya's hands and then trail out of the room, saying that she needed to bathe, and Kenya would follow and demand that she get to participate. And maybe she would. Or maybe Amanda would overhear and shout from the kitchen, "Oh no you're not," and Kenya would grumble and join Amanda for a cup of coffee at the table. Maybe Stahma would join them some time later and she'd smile and be whole and alive and well and clean and unharmed and-

Kenya's finger trembled over the deep rosen spot on Stahma's back, and Stahma's body shrunk out of reach.

"Good morning."

"Morning," Stahma agreed. The even tone of her voice suggested that she had, as assumed, been awake for some time. She did not turn to face Kenya, did not display any sort of warmth. Kenya untangled herself from the sheets and bent to kiss the curve of Stahma's neck once before rising to her feet, but Stahma jerked violently away. _"Don't touch me,"_ she hissed, and though Kenya knew Stahma could not see, she nodded.

And closed the bedroom door behind her with a soft click.

Down the hall, she could see Amanda sitting at the kitchen table with a hot, untouched mug of coffee. A newspaper sat at her fingertips, but her eyes chose instead to read the blank wall opposite. Kenya cleared her throat, and waved weakly once she'd caught Amanda's gaze.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she stated dumbly. Amanda nodded, trance-like. Her wet hair hung in thick, plastic-like curls around her face.

"I'm gonna make breakfast," she replied with lameness equal to Kenya's. "Is Stahma awake yet?"

"Yeah."

"How is she?"

"I dunno."

"Oh." Amanda stared at Kenya. Kenya stared back. These small lines, she knew, were pointless. They weren't really the words that needed to be said; nor were they the words that needed to be heard. But Kenya's tongue was too tired to speak the thanks that Amanda deserved, too tired to give voice to the concerns and confusion that overwhelmed her. Amanda, likewise, seemed to bite her own tongue; but she was older and knew, more often, what was most necessary. Eventually she said, "You know, you gotta give her some time. When you finally left Hunter, you wouldn't let anyone near you for-"

"Yeah, a month. And then I barely talked to anyone for a month after that. I hated myself, Amanda. I was sick and I needed help."

"I don't want to downplay what happened last night," Amanda sighed, "but Ken, it was an isolated thing. He meant to kill her. She's a survivor of a murder attempt, not repeated abuse. Give her some time. She'll talk when she's ready."

"You don't know that! This could've been going on for years as far as you know!"

"Kenya..."

"I'm going to take a shower!"

The door slammed, and was soon followed by the hiss of hot water. Amanda leaned back and wove her hair into a thick braid.

"Breakfast," she muttered to herself, stepping into the kitchen. Her hand sought out the bottle of scotch she'd left open on the counter last night, and brought it to her lips in one easy motion. _What to do about breakfast?_

 

By nine thirty, Kenya had showered and and redressed herself in a large, fleece-lined hoodie and flannel pajama bottoms adorned with unicorns, a Christmas gift from Amanda two years ago. They seemed oddly suiting now: It was cold, _far_ too cold for late September, and the warmth of cinnamon wafted from the kitchen. Easy conversation met Kenya's ears. For a moment, she believed that the events of last night truly _had_ been a dream, and the content voice of the Stahma she now heard was a Stahma whole and unwounded.

Even once she'd stepped into the main room, she held on momentarily to this belief. The wounds- likely imagined- were gone from Stahma's body. She turned, dressed in a long, woolen cloak, and offered Kenya a smile.

" _Religwo_ , my pretty girl. I'm sorry if I was rude this morning."

She took Kenya's hand and kissed it, then pulled away with a wince and immediately started dabbing her lip. Blood, hot and pink, marked Kenya's hand where Stahma's mouth had touched.

"I'm sorry," Stahma quickly said. "It must've broken open again. I'm sorry..."

"No, no, it's okay," Kenya reassured, wiping the back of her hand on her pants. She tried to catch Stahma's eyes, but Stahma only turned further away. Now, with such little space between them and with Stahma's back facing towards her, Kenya could better see the spots where she distinctly recalled seeing wounds only just that morning. Upon further inspection, the wounds were, indeed, still there. Caked, white powder partially shielded her bruises from view, but an abnormally bluish undertone prevented their total concealment. On the upper back of Stahma's arm, dry flakes of the white powder clogged an oozing wound.

"Stahma, that isn't safe. You need to clean out those wounds and wrap them properly."

"I'm fine."

"No, Stahma-"

"I'm _fine!_ "

Amanda, setting down two hot plates of French toast before heading back into the kitchen to fetch one more, interjected, "Kenya's right. You need to keep those clean, alright?"

As Amanda returned, Stahma lowered her eyes into her lap, built up a smile, and murmured, "of course."

Thus passed breakfast.

Afterwards, as per her agreement, Stahma allowed Kenya to guide her into to bathroom to wash her wounds, but she guarded and maintained a sense of dignity. Never, as she sat upon the cold edge of that porcelain tub, did her forward gaze flinch. Kenya’s hand dipped beneath the faucet, testing the water. Satisfied, she plugged the drain and seated herself beside Stahma.

“Hey,” she tried. The ponds of Kenya’s eyes flowed over the rigid body beside her, and reflected within them a familiar pain. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, Stahma, c’mon-”

“No,” she snapped, tongue quickly recoiling between falsely-turned lips. “Mmm, no. I’m… I’m fine.”

“Stahma…” Kenya’s hand slid to rest next to Stahma’s, and her fingers strained until her knuckles began to turn a paler shade. “We’re not that different, you know. I might be able to understand some of what you’re going through.”

“How would you know _anything_ about I'm going through?”

“I just want to help you!”

“I don’t need the help of a filthy human girl!”

Kenya's face transformed from an image of genuine concern to one of astonishment, then hurt, and finally a cautionary mix of both. Her mouth pushed to feign indifference.

"...Stahma..."

"I'm sorry. That was a terrible thing for me to say." Her vision fell to where Kenya's hand rested, just barely touching her own. In her mind, she disected the organic form: Pure, white bone; hot and passioned red blood; a thick, pink mask of skin.

And then there was her own hand, a virginal white through and through.

But Kenya's hands, Stahma told herself, were not... _dirty._ When those hands had clawed down Stahma's back or entangled themselves deep within her hair, she had not feared that they would infect her with their sin. When she had kissed those hands, she had not feared that her lips would come away with blisters and boils.

In Stahma's earliest years, Mother had taught her that it was alright for a man to take multiple women into his bed, even if those women were human. Father and Datak had provided demonstration. She'd smiled and accepted this because their hands were white like hers and thus they could be trusted; She'd smiled and accepted this because their hands were thick and strong and thus must be obeyed.

Stahma was not a man.

She'd had no right to draw pleasure from this tiny human body.

Their two adjacent hands were as still as Stahma's conflict was wild, contrasting each other still more as Kenya's grip softened and the red returned to her knuckles. The accident of Kenya's birth had been this impure shade, Stahma thought, just as Stahma's female body had been the accident of her own birth.

Kenya's hands were pink and Datak's were white.

But Kenya's hands had worshipped the neglected heart that beat in the cage of Stahma's [cold, white] ribs.

And Datak's hands had sought to destroy her pulse.

Kenya's lips quivered, parted, but Stahma's voice interrupted and burried whatever words Kenya had meant to give.

"Help me undress."

How many times had Kenya done that very thing before? _Only twice,_ she reminded herself, but so many more in her dreams. Then, her movements had been characterized by a sort of desperation. She'd peeled away Stahma's holy garnments and tossed them aside as though they carried the same burden as a lousy exam grade or a drawling textbook. And, inevitably, Kenya's own garnments would soon follow if they had not already set the precedent.

Now, the ache in Kenya's gut was something far different than the desire to which she accustomed.

Kenya removed each layer of material and her hands danced slowly, spiders mending the broken web that was Stahma. Still, they regarded her body with the same reverence as they had on those many other encounters: First caressing the sharp expanse of her shoulders; now smoothing her hair; now kissing her toes as they eased Stahma's shoes from her feet.

At this point, when all of Stahma's clothes had finally been removed, her face took on a look of horror, and her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. "Kenya," she whispered. "My beads. I need my beads."

"Your... beads?" Kenya repeated, head canting to the side.

"I'm sure Alak and Christie packed them. Please fetch them for me."

"Stahma, you don't need your beads. Aren't they going to hurt? At least until you heal, you probably shouldn't wear them."

"Only a man can be naked as Rayetso made him."

"Stahma..."

 _"Please!"_  
Kenya pursed her lips, nodded.

She returned with the beads some time later. Stahma smiled, allowed Kenya to assist her in putting on the beads, and then finally slid into the warm water. Kenya's small form leaned into the tub, dipping a rag into the water and then pressing it ever-so-lightly upon the damaged portions of Stahma's flesh. When the rag came away with the tint of pink blood, Kenya rang it out in the sink- out of sight. All this took place in silence, even when Stahma involuntarily winced, or her eyes clouded in thought and her bottom lip quivered. The silence was too holy to break with tired voices.

So when finally Stahma admitted how badly she desired Kenya's company-

When finally the unwritten laws that prevented her from bathing alone were too much to defy-

When finally she'd blinded herself to the way Kenya's fingertips blushed red when provoked by the hot water-

...she did not ask Kenya to join her.

She simply caught the sleeve of her arm and tugged her gently closer.

"You want me to come in?"

And Stahma nodded.


	10. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenya deals with the feeling of rejection; Stahma and Amanda learn more about each other's past

Saturday and Sunday passed in a similar manner: Silently, with sporadic and pungent outbursts. Doors slammed, shook. Dark circles bled to fill the crescents under Amanda's eyes. Dinners broken by the disjointed scraping of utensils led into lavished nighttime apologies. There was, indeed, no contact whatsoever in that dark. Only Kenya's quiet sobs and mumbled apologies reached across the void between those two bodies.

It felt as though Stahma's eyes never closed. Those two lilac discs seemed always to be staring back at Kenya whenever she woke to find herself facing Stahma's direction. They never blinked, never closed, and so haunting was this that Kenya was sometimes moved to reach out and check for a pulse, afraid that her lover's body had become altogether vacant.

The body- or perhaps only the shell- would, without fail, jolt and flinch backwards, and again tears would well in Kenya's eyes and again she'd whisper, "I'm _sorry._ "

 

Monday morning was...

Bleak.

The clock flashed five-forty-four. Kenya pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. It tasted hauntingly familiar to the way it did a year ago, when Hunter's hands had been the constant ring around her throat.

"Stahma?"

No answer.

But when she rolled over, Stahma was still there. Back turned. Body rising, falling.

"Stahma, we have school. You gotta get up."

After a moment, Stahma rose, and Kenya watched as the back of the angel in a nightdress trailed out the door. The roar of hot water sounded from the bathroom, and eventually, Kenya found the will to follow suit.

It's unnecessary to describe in extreme detail the morning routine that followed; the reader need only understand the extreme tension between these two adolescents. They spoke once, and that conversation was no more than Kenya requesting permission to enter the bathroom, and Stahma calling back a short, "Of course."

And then there was no more sound than the small splashes of bathwater and the buzzing of Kenya's toothbrush.

The reader need also know that when Kenya, still in her pajamas but far more awake and ready than she'd been upon entering, exited the bathroom, she came across a tired-eyed Amanda pulling on a thick jacket in the living room.

"I'm going to walk Stahma to school as soon as she's ready," Amanda announced. "I want to talk to her guidance councilor about some schedule changes."

Skip to first period: History class, and a cigar hung between Mr. M's first and middle finger, unlit but chewed. Seating arrangements went unchanged. Stahma still sat with the other Castithans, and Tirra still sat beside Kenya. They did not acknowledge each other with even so much as a glance.

Time and time again, the wandering tip of Kenya's pencil shattered into graphite dust, and she'd balk, groan, and make her way to the back of the classroom to sharpen it.

She found herself grateful for the brutally loud grind of the electric sharpener, for the way it sent tiny pulses up her arm that then vibrated throughout her body.

It forced her, for at least those short moments, to feel present.

Stahma appeared more and more frequently in Kenya's classes, but was absent from the _fuavanos._ If ever Datak sent a hot glare Kenya's way or a teacher scolded her or someone asked a question or Christie smiled in her direction or Tirra greeted her with a bitter snarl, Kenya did not notice. Her bubble of consciousness extended only to include Stahma, and all else passed in a meaningless blur.

They walked home together that evening- side by side, but not touching. Kenya's fingers furled and unfurled, dancing at her side and wanting to reach out but not daring to do so. Her hair was messy, tossed, falling out of the elastic that had originally contained it; and her skin was greasy and red and graphite spotted her hands and her clothes fell in tired disarray. Yet beside her, Stahma was as well-groomed- as beautiful- as she'd been that very morning, despite her healing wounds. Her eyes did not once look Kenya's way.

Fire tickled Kenya's tongue. Smoke bit at the roof of her mouth, begging her to open up, to ask-

"Stahma?"

"Yes?"

"Do you hate me?" _For what I did,_ she finished silently. _For falling for your stupid charm, for telling Christie, for being the reason that Datak hurt you._ "Lately, it just seems... you seem..."

"What a silly girl," Stahma cooed, shaking her head. "I care for you _deeply_."

But when Kenya turned to read the expression on Stahma's face, it seemed the distance between them had only increased.

"All of my classes with Datak have been switched," Stahma said. "I have your dear sister to thank for that."

"That's good." Kenya shivered, crossed her arms over her chest. "Before... _this,_ did Datak ever hurt you in any way?"

Stahma's paused, pursed her lips, and shook her head.

"Never with his hands."

 

When at last night fell, they lay on separate sides of the bed, two outward facing pages ripped from their binding. Stahma remained awake long after Kenya's breath slowed to a steady rhythm and her eyes fell shut. She was moved, eventually, to place paper-light feet upon the floor and rise as though blown upwards by a gust of wind. Her body fluttered out of the room, cold and frail and billowing. The hallway swept her up and spit her out into the central room, where Amanda, with an empty glass and a book resting on the table, sat. She acknowledged Stahma with an upward throw of eyes that were, in all their effort, too tired to be guarded. Stahma's feet stopped. She felt, in that moment, increasingly aware of her own form, the way it stood out against the green depths of the hall, and the way the toes peering out from beneath her nightgown were contrasted against the hard and stained wood of the floorboards. Stahma's eyes did not leave her feet; she kept her gaze low and humbled for fear that an open gaze may catch divine attention and welcome further punishment.

She could smell the raw, feral warmth radiating from Amanda's skin. Had Stahma's own sillage been tainted by living in such close proximity with these humans? Had Datak known her error not as a result of Kenya's tireless lips, but as consequence of her foul aroma?

"Hey, Stahma," Amanda prompted. "Did you need something?"

Stahma's tongue darted across her lips.

"Just a glass of water."

"Help yourself."

 _Foul,_ Stahma thought as she scampered past and again inhaled the human's air. _Foul,_ she thought, but did not quite believe; for despite the foreign bite, this scent was one to which she'd already become somewhat accustomed. And she didn't truly mind it.

She didn't mind it at all.

But still Stahma saw the way her father's face had puckered with distaste and the way his violet eyes had burned with hate as he spit, _"Foul."_ And she tried desperately, _desperately_ to agree.

Water surged from the faucet to fill the glass in Stahma's outstretched hand. She switched the water off. Stood. Sipped. Pretended that her body didn't still _ache_ ; pretended that her mind was not threatening to burst. Sipped her water. Stared at the wall. Slipped out from the kitchen, past Amanda-

"Is Kenya asleep yet?"

Stopped. Blinked. "Of course."

Amanda raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her chair. "Have you been sleeping alright?"

Smiled. Lied. "Of course."

Amanda stretched, yawned. "I should probably go to bed, too," she said. "Might as well get some sleep, right?"

 _Might as well,_ Stahma agreed, _if you can keep your mind at ease for long enough._ "I think I'm going to stay up for a while longer and write. I've been neglecting my journal."

"It's two o'clock, Stahma. If I didn't have to be up this late doing work, I wouldn't be. You should sleep."

 _Be a good girl, Stahma,_ her mother's voice urged. _Do everything you're told and be good._ "Of course." As though sleep would come easily. As though she _deserved_ to sleep easily. As though she could ignore the scolding voices in her head and the throbbing pain in her shoulder and the memory of spilled blood and the anger on Datak's face and Kenya's breathing and her heavy clothes and the touch of red sheets and the dark room and her dark mind and the quiet and the voices and the memories and the breathing and the blood and the voices and the memories and blood and skin and pain and voices, memories, blood-

Inhale. Exhale.

Smile.

Bite your tongue.

Tell them what they want to hear.

"Of course," Stahma repeated with increased firmness. "I'll see you in the morning."

She focused on the pressure of her feet against the wood and walked. Forward. Towards Kenya's bedroom.

Amanda sighed. "What a load of shtako." Stahma heard the chair creak, and then Amanda's feet padding back into the kitchen. "Come here, Stahma. I'm going to pour us both a glass of hot milk, and we're going to talk, okay?"

 _But not about Datak. Not about what you saw._ "Okay."

Stahma sat, and when Amanda returned with two warm beverages in hand, Stahma accepted hers with a dip of the head and a gracious, " _Bihalazhwe._ " Amanda smiled in a way that suggested some slight uneasiness as she settled into her seat once more. The small table lamp illuminated Amanda's features, and Stahma- not for the first time- noted the similarities between this tired-eyed blonde and Stahma's small lover. There was the same tight-lipped grin, a similarly upturned nose. And although Amanda's eyes were a slightly darker, slightly greener shade than Kenya's, they were of both a similar clarity and a similar, careful compassion- compassion of which Stahma now found herself the object.

"Have you been healing alright?"

Stahma tipped her head in an affirmative gesture. "Thank you for requesting a change in my schedule this morning," she said. "I'm sorry that Guidance gave you so much trouble."

"It's fine," Amanda insisted. "I deal with stubborn asses at VRC all the time."

"Votan resources?"

"Mmm. It's more like a debate club half the time. Doesn't seem like any of the races can agree on anything, no matter how hard we try. Someday, maybe."

Stahma's lips- tight, compressed- turned upwards as her chin tipped down. "We do have our differences."

"Yeah, but... we also..." Amanda halted and closed her eyes. After releasing a long breath, she rocked backwards and drew her arms over her chest. The light touched her hands, scalding them a near-white, but her features retreated almost entirely into shadow, save for the light that was reflected in her now-open eyes. "I can't tell you how many times a Casti has been given services that we just denied a Liberata and it's just..." Another sigh. A shake of the head. "I'm sorry, Stahma. It's not just the Castithans or the Liberata and I'm not... blaming-"

"It's fine. I doubt the Liberata mind much. They're such an..." Stahma paused, exhaled, flashed a wide grin. "-agreeable people." _Filthier than humans,_ Her father spat. _A veonuvanawo, even to this filthy Earth._

"Maybe," Amanda muttered, looking down at her glass in a subtle yet noticeable- for nothing escaped Stahma's heightened state- display of disagreement. _Wrong card, Stahma. But now you have to play it._

"They were once a respectable race, but they made their mistakes. They are at the bottom for a... reason."

"Do you really believe that?"

Stahma blinked, and, ever so slowly, shook her head. Her brow creased into a deep line; Her tongue rose and fell in search for words. "It's not- what I believe-" she stuttered. "This is known fact."

Her mind did not [and in fact could not] let go of Amanda's question. _Do you really believe that?_ There _was_ no answer! Stahma had been taught to assume, to judge, to _know._ Her beliefs were rarely her own; For of the many things Stahma had been taught and given throughout her life, the privilege to believe had never been one.

The question's unintentional depth fell heavily upon the two conversing figures. From Amanda's lips came no noise, no movement. Whether this was a show of satisfaction or anger remained as unclear as Stahma's previous answer, yet equally as telling of something more deeply rooted.

Stahma's tongue ran over the thick scab on her lower lip. As she felt her memory shift back to the hand that caused the mentioned wound, she thought instead to she who had so gently kissed that once-unscathed surface, as though Stahma's body was fragile enough to burst at any given moment.

Stahma had, in a manner true to her recent character, given neither a verbal nor physical response.

The glass in Kenya's eyes broke again, and Stahma wondered at the irony of that.

Surely this poor human was the frail one, _gao?_

"Kenya..." Stahma thought aloud; And, upon the realization that she _had_ spoken, finished quickly with- "What was she like as a young child?"

The atmospherical shift was immediate. "A total brat. I mean, maybe I was, too, but she gave me such hell." A genuine smile, wide and bright. "She still does, and I don't really blame her."

"But she's such a sweet little thing."

Amanda laughed. "Give her a few months. Then she'll really get on your nerves."

"Perhaps."

"Kenya... tried to run away a couple times when we were younger. I'd get so scared, you know- thought it was my fault, thought that she'd been kidnapped or murdered or wandered too far out of town... and then I'd find her sitting on a bag of clothes and crying in some nearby street. I always hated her for that. It was like this big... 'fuck you,' you know? After all the shtako I'd gone through trying to keep us together and keep her in school, she was willing to just... leave."

 _Like you left us_ Stahma heard, and felt rather than saw the way her mother's trembling mouth had kissed Stahma's upturned palms. "It must've been so hard for you," Stahma murmured. "In all those times, did you ever think of just... letting her go? I'm sure it would've been easier to get by _without_ Kenya."

Amanda's eyes narrowed, and her jaw jutted outwards. "Not once," she said firmly. "Stahma, she's my sister."

_And I'm their daughter._


	11. Cacophony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo has begun. I've participated every year for the last five, but I don't have quite as much time this year as I have in the past. Thus, I am informally participating and using this fic as my NaNoWriMo project. The quality of the writing might suffer, and I apologize for that. In the case that it doesn't... hurrah! This month should be filled with frequent updates.
> 
> That was super rambly. Apologies. On to the story!

Stahma finally managed to sleep that night.

Of course, she did not sleep for very long. It was near morning by the time her eyes finally closed, and only a few short hours later, she was awoken by a light kiss placed to the tip of her nose.

And there, in the dim morning, Stahma recognized the flutter of Kenya's glitter-caked eyes, and the curve of a sympathetic red smile.

"You don't have to get up yet," Kenya whispered. "Amanda said it's alright if you stay home and sleep."

Stahma narrowed her eyes.

"I have not any need to stay home and sleep, Kenya," she insisted. In a demonstration of proof, Stahma rose from the bed and began sweeping through the careful motions of readying herself for the day. Her fingers worked through her hair, undoing the braid that had held it overnight. From her bags- still unpacked, still sitting open and uncertain in the corner of Kenya’s bedroom- she pulled forth a gown, undergarments, and a light veil.

Stahma's nightdress, in her haste, slipped down her arm to reveal what Kenya recalled as being the worst of Stahma’s injuries. It was pink, inflamed, and heavily scabbed, but less terrible in appearance than it had been only a few short days ago. This observation brought light to Kenya's heart and tongue, and she said aloud: "You're healing!" As though it were an unexpected miracle. The wound’s objective horridness set in. Kenya’s voice lowered, softened. “But it’s going to get infected, Stahma. Just washing it isn’t enough. You gotta keep that bandaged. Do you need help?”

Stahma fixed her dress and turned away from Kenya. "Go," she said. "Don't be late for school. I'll leave here as soon as I'm ready."

"No, Stahma. I'll wait for you."

"Kenya, I can manage myself just fine and I need you to _leave!_ "

Silence reigned. Stahma's eyes shifted downwards and away, and her lips curled to placate her own violently effected tongue. "I don't want to be the reason you're late," she murmured. "It would be... selfish."

This explanation was all well and truthful, even if not entirely thorough. The explanation’s delivery, however, suggested a slight dishonesty or deception; For the last flicker of Kenya's eyes burned from insult- and then Kenya turned, left. A minute later, the front door slammed shut.

A long breath of stale air fled Stahma's lungs.

Stahma left within half an hour of Kenya, skipping over her routine morning bath out of necessity. This was not the first time she'd been forced to omit a _famáiro_ for lack of time, but this instance caused significantly more apprehension in young Stahma than any instance before. On any other day, she might look forward to bathing within the next hour during the first _fuavano._ Today, she'd be forced to wait until evening. Bathing in Datak's proximity was an invitation for a brutal and public death; Allowing the other Castithans to see her damaged body would bring shame.

Stahma arrived- late- to first period.

Latin.

The brown to white ombre columns of students were too tightly packed for Stahma to take her usual seat among the rest of her kind. And so, after kissing the teacher's rough hands and apologizing profusely for lateness, Stahma sat in the first row. She opened her sketch book, pen tensed across the top of the page. _Kenya,_ she thought, but dared not draw. _Kenya._

Sitting in the back of the classroom. Pouting lips. Glitter-coated lashes. Stubborn set jaw. Dimpled chin. Slim figure. Kneading fingers. Bright eyes. Heavy questions, light smiles.

Kenya.

_Kenya!_

Kenya wrapped up in the red sheets, Kenya lit by the red sun. Pink blood on Kenya's hand as Stahma kissed it, pink skin embracing her. Red lips, red tongue. A pink blouse tossed away by red intention. Oh, Kenya!

The clock ticked as rapidly as Stahma's hard pulse. Pink blood pumping _fila, kama, dunya._ She wanted to leave, to flee, to drown herself in hot water and hide in large white curtains and tear Kenya's pink flesh apart until there was nothing left but white bones, white teeth as pure as Stahma's own. Maybe then it'd be _okay!_ Maybe in the grave, Stahma could finally love, could finally breathe, could weave a web as bright and strong as any man's.

Ink bled into the page, aimless and black.

Stahma closed the sketchbook and focused her eyes on the current lesson.

Whiteboard. White clock. White wall.

Inhale. Exhale. Smile. Do as your told.

 _The good things in this world are as pure and white as you,_ Daddy had once said. _Find pleasure in those, Stahma._

She'd reached for books, for pearls, for porcelain baths and long beaded strings. Silver. Silk. Lace.

Father nodded his approval. Mother smiled.

Was it innocent to believe so strongly in absolute purity? Was it naive to believe that a girl of such high aspirations as her own could thrive in this world, and still adhere to family and cultural expectations?

Could she truly attain any form of happiness?

This was one of Stahma's lesser priorities. Happiness, she'd been taught, was not something to be attained; it was something to be accepted.

 _You will be just as happy with Haruzho as you believe you would be with Datak,_ her mother had weeped on their day of parting. _Do not do this thing, Stahma. It is foolish and crazy and shameful. Stay. Come home._

Stahma had not listened.

And she had been...

Happy?

 _Or perhaps I was not,_ she reflected. Datak had been cruel, ruthless. Perhaps these were qualities she'd find in any Castithan man. But another- Haruzho, perhaps- would satisfy her in other ways.

Wealth.

Honor.

_Marusha._

Kenya offered her a cruel and crazy sort of happiness. In the Rosewater household, she was- at last!- given a home, a family, a sanctuary in which she felt at least remotely safe. She had not known such a feeling in her early years, and thus had not longed for it.

'Temptation,' she thought, had finally found her.

The teacher's words ebbed and flowed from mouth to hand to notebook, and in time, the bell finally rang, and Stahma was thrown back into the wave of rushing students.

  
She wandered aimlessly for the next hour, not daring to enter the courtyard.

Next class: Home economics II. The cloth between Stahma's fingers was white, white, white. Silver needle pierced cotton; white thread ducked and ran. Each stitch brought her further from the present, closer to sanity. Stitch. Inhale. Smile. Do as you're told. Stitch. Exhale. Smile. Do as you're told. Stitch, stitch, stitch.

The second fuavano came and went, and still Stahma sat in the home economics classroom, needle in hand. Stitch, stitch, stitch.

Third block:  
Creative writing with Kenya.

Kenya entered five minutes after class began.

The teacher scowled.

"Late."

"I'm sorry! Some boys in the hall knocked over my stuff and I-"

"Late. Sit, Kenya."

A slow nod.

Then obedience.

Stahma breathed a sigh of relief. _Good._

Kenya's eyes flickered over to Stahma, and Stahma acknowledged them with a slight nod.

Her heart flared, but her features remained unchanged.

_This is no place for emotion. This is not the time._

Stahma heard- and saw, out of the corner of her eye- as Kenya's hand ripped a corner from an open notebook, scribbled down a short message, and then slipped the folded paper onto Stahma's desk.

_"You okay?"_

Stahma's teeth ground hard against each other. Of course she was _okay._ Had she shown any visible indication that she felt otherwise?

Without turning her head, she nodded affirmation, and slipped the note into her school bag.

Kenya sighed, and Stahma hissed, _"Focus."_

Stahma, however, found herself incapable of following her own advice. Her senses climbed to an overactive frenzy, analyzing everything about the girl beside her. Kenya smelled of tension, of anxiety, of brute Castithan hands. Had Datak been the one to push her in the hallway? No; she knew Datak's stench even better than her own, and his had not tainted Kenya's air.

But the smell was, indeed, similar to Datak's. It was that of Casti males; ones that were likely to associate with Datak, or boys of his status and liro.

Stahma's hands clenched at her dress. It wasn't likely that the insult had been premeditated, but even so...

Inhale. Exhale. Smile. Nothing is wrong.

A paper fell upon Stahma's desk.

"Narrative," it read in bold, centered lettering.

A definition, and then a rubric, followed.

Stahma's pen tapped the top of the paper.

Her story would be cold, superficial.

But eloquent.

Skilled.

She would get a good mark.

And she'd pretend that _that_ was happiness.

 

The day, as days do, passed as such; When she saw Kenya in the hallway, she pretend that her heart did not throb and call for the small human's touch. When Datak's glare caught her eye, Stahma turned her own gaze to the floor.

_Do as you are bid!_

_I tried, Daddy! I tried!_

She'd tried.

And she'd failed.

 _Rayetso frowns upon rats like you,_ Datak had spat, and his hand gripped her wrist harder, dragged her onwards into a night as dark as her sin, as dark as her desire, her _love..._

Inhale. Exhale. Do as you are told.

The wind pricked her skin as she started the march homeward. Kenya's hand caught her shoulder, and brushed back the hair from Stahma's face.

"Hey, I have a detention, so I gotta stay for a while longer. I'll meet you back at the house in a couple hours, okay?"

Stahma smiled and attempted a show of polite sympathy. "Of course."

 _Still,_ she noted, _Kenya reeks of silver flesh._

 

The Rosewater household welcomed Stahma inwards and gifted her with silence.

She bathed, lavishing the warm water and bleeding out the dirt and shame from her pours.

An hour came and went.

Stahma opened the drain, waited. Shivered as air washed over her body. Closed the drain. Opened the faucet.

During that second hour, Amanda's voice broke the house's silence. "Kenya? Stahma?"

" _Myeme tsa_ ," Stahma called back. "Kenya had to stay at school for a detention. She should be home soon."

A muffled groan sounded from behind the door, and then Amanda grumbled, "Thanks. Good to know."

 

Another hour came and went.

And then another.

Stahma was seated in front of the fireplace, eyes dry and distant, when the gears finally started to turn. Her limbs took on a heaviness; iron realization sank in her gut.  


"Amanda?" Stahma managed, steadying her voice with immense effort. Amanda stepped out from the kitchen, dish and rag still in hand.

"Hmmm?"

"Kenya should've been back an hour ago."

Amanda tensed. "Are you sure?"

Stahma nodded slowly, questioning again her own conclusion. But she could see it: Kenya's apologetic- if not frustrated- smile as she rushed in late to each shared class. The soiled air that cloaked her body. The smug quality of Datak's glare. Kenya reaching out to catch Stahma's shoulder- "A couple of hours," she'd said. Kenya's inability to focus, her attention drifting always between Stahma and the back of the room. Kenya spilling excuses- "I'm sorry, some boys in the hall-"

"My locker was empty and-"

"I ran into somebody and-"

Stahma was certain. "I think Kenya is in danger," she murmured. "And it's entirely my fault."


	12. Vakitso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is probably in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter done for a couple days, but didn't post it because... it's short. And I'm not entirely happy with it. Nevertheless, here it is, and I do hope it's acceptable. Let me know?  
> -A

"Your fault?"

Stahma shook her head- a show of confusion or guilt more than denial- and closed her eyes. "Datak, he- Oh. Rayetso. My god. Oh n-no-"

Her voice broke off, trembling. Amanda slid the rag and plate onto the counter behind her and moved to meet Stahma at eye level, kneeling down and placing her hands on the Castithan's shoulders.

"Stahma, you need to tell me what's wrong. We can find Kenya, but you need to tell me where she is."

"I don't know!" she snapped, teeth bared. Feral pain and distrust swam in lurid eyes. "She was late so many times to classes today- it seemed always that someone was making her late, setting her up-"

"Is someone after her?"

"No! I don't- I don't know."

"Hey-Stahma, look at me. Breathe. If someone did set her up, who might that be?"

Stahma swallowed hard. Her tongue went dry. Her eyes, trance-like, moved upwards. "Datak."

She named the demon with a sort of flat carelessness that one might possess after repeating the same word for many hours.  
In such a tone, one might expect the name to carry little, if any, meaning at all. This was not the case. The name carried _too_ much meaning; In those two syllables, Stahma drew a clear connection between herself and the offender. She aroused images of a drawn blade, an angry fist. She conjured elaborate schemes, ways in which one might guess Stahma had some involvement in Kenya's tardiness. Perhaps Stahma had been planning this from the start, pinning Kenya as just another practice target in the art of manipulation; or perhaps Datak the plan was indeed Datak's alone; But could Stahma not still be guilty of being his precious paw, and Amanda a simple pawn? Neither such hypothetical theories were true, yet simple truth might not have been enough to keep Amanda from believing them.

Finally, the name served as a reminder:

This is never going to end.

“When you came after me on Friday night,” Stahma continued, “he swore he’d kill me and anyone else that got in the way. And as far as Datak is concerned, you and Kenya are both 'in the way.'"

Amanda rose to her feet and ran her hand over her face, allowing a hot breath of air to escape from her mouth. "Dammit. I'm going to go get my coat."

"No- Amanda, please. You can't go."

"You just said that she's in trouble, and I highly doubt she'd be out this long, Stahma. She's my sister. You want me to just leave her be?"

"No, of course not." Stahma struggled to stand. She hurried after Amanda, placing an arm's distance between them at all times. "It's not safe. You- you saw what Datak did to me. He doesn't think about the things he does; he rarely holds grudges more than a week and he acts on impulse. He's dangerous when he's angry. You can't go in there alone."

"If you know him so goddamn well, come with me."  
Stahma's body went rigid; her lips clamped shut. When Amanda glanced back, she rolled her eyes and appeared to be silently scolding herself for such a suggestion. Amanda shoved her hands- two, tight fists- into the pockets of her jacket. "Never mind," she muttered. "Is there anywhere else she might be? Do you want to check the school?"

"...Alone?"

"Never mind that, too." Amanda kneaded her temples. "What about Christie? Alak? Do you have any way of contacting them?"

"Not directly, no."

"Then I have to go, Stahma."

"No. Don't. Just- wait-"

"Goddamn it, Stahma! How selfish can you be?"

_“You don’t know what you’re dealing with!”_

“Well, if it’s just another angry Casti, I’d say you’re a pretty damn good indication right now.”

Stahma pursed her lips, stepped back. Decision sank heavily in her gut, and she lifted her chin inspite of the weight. Her eyes grazed over Amanda's figure. It was one that, given the short amount of time Stahma and Amanda had known one another, had become quite familiar to young Stahma. Did she know Amanda's form the way Stahma knew Kenya's? Could she read each sister with the same accuracy, the same careful attention as she could read the other? Did she know the meaning of Amanda's crooked half-smile quite the way she knew Kenya's faux frown? No; certainly not! But this was not to say that Stahma did not know Amanda at all, and that Amanda's very presence had not brought Stahma comfort. _You were a lucky girl, Kenya,_ Stahma thought. _It's a shame that I must leave, and that you're likely gone. I would've liked to share this sister with you. Amanda may be angry now, but I'm doing this for her, too. She'll be safe._

"Alright," Stahma breathed. "Go get Kenya. But please do not go alone."  
"I plan on it." She zipped her jacket. Shook her head. Huffed. "I don't have time for this. I'm leaving."

"As am I."

Amanda turned, a frown crossing her lips. "What?"

"I think it's best if I go," Stahma said with that thin, ever-present smile. "Neither you nor Kenya are in danger if I'm gone. I'm going to leave town."

"Oh, really?" Amanda's eyebrow quirked upwards. "Where are you gonna go?"

"Home. If I repent, perhaps my parents will take me back, arrange for a new marriage..." she trailed off, smiling and nodding to herself as though these small gestures would be enough to convince herself that she was doing the right thing. "They can provide more safety for me than anyone else. And I've been a... terrible daughter."

"Alright."

The simple word hung between them, heavier than it ought to be, and then fell at Stahma's feet with a dull 'thud.'

Her hand reached forwards, captured Amanda's own, and brought the hand to her lips.

"I’ll leave through the southern wood as soon as I’ve gathered my belongings. Thank you for everything, Amanda." Stahma watched Amanda's eyes. They were hard, dark, and burdened by feelings of confliction. Amanda was, it seemed, not quite ready to say goodbye; But just as strong was the air of distrust and slight relief, as though Stahma's absence was too great a miracle to accept.

_And you can hardly be blamed for that, Amanda._

Stahma lowered her eyes and smiled softly. "Now go."

 

From that moment onward, Stahma found herself possessed by numbness. Her feet did not drag, nor did they stumble in an adrenaline-induced haste; They fell, rose, in rhythmic succession, obediently following their path. Not much time was needed to pack Stahma's bags; for they'd been hardly unpacked in the days that she'd spent in the Rosewater household, and thus the process was only a matter of consolidating belongings and deciding which things must be sacrificed for need of space. In the end, there was little left of Stahma in Kenya's room, save for the tied plastic bags she'd left piled in the red tin trash can.

A steady hand switched out the lights.

Reached for a thick leather shoulder strap.

She tried, with all her might, not to think on the emotional consequences of her actions. In the morning, Stahma would wake- in the cold? In the bed of a stranger? In the plain cotton sheets of an inn?- and there would be no one beside her. She would not wake to Kenya's chaste kiss, nor to the dusty haze of sunlight streaming through lacy curtains. The pillow beside her would not be warm, impressed. She would not necessarily be graced with the luxury of a bath, nor the privilege of an education. But in a few days time, perhaps she'd wake to home.

Maybe she'd fall asleep in her childhood bed, and wake to the same shimmering drapes casting bits of light over her no-longer childish body. Maybe she'd join Mom and Dad- at last!- for the morning _famairo,_ and Stahma's favorite handmaiden would brush out Stahma's hair and pin it back in spiraling braids. Perhaps Daddy would scowl for a while; Maybe Mother wouldn't look at Stahma quite the same.

But if Stahma was good-

If she kept her lips tight and her chin down-

If she listened and nodded and smiled when needed-

If she got on her knees and kissed Daddy's palms and repented again and again and again-

All would be well. Eventually.

For the last time, the front door clicked shut behind Stahma, and she stepped out into the waiting night.

 

An hour's walk to the edge of town had been enough to set a hard autumn chill in Stahma's bones.

Every step until then felt forced.

Every step afterwards felt automated.

She wondered at the time- twenty one? twenty two hundred? later, perhaps?- and then concluded, finally, that time had no relevance. She _would_ get home. If her legs gave out and the road became too long, she'd hire out an escort.

She had enough money.

 _And surely,_ she told herself, _I have enough strength._

Leaves screamed and shattered beneath Stahma's feet, and the trees' branches beckoned her onwards.

Stahma had learned long ago that the mind has a way of drifting to that which one wants most not to recall; and on this cold eve, Kenya Rosewater was that undesired thought.

Kenya. Blood painted lips. Black smears below her lashes. A broken jaw. Trembling chin. Frail figure. Fighting fingers. Glossy eyes. Desperate questions, fake smiles.

Kenya.

_Kenya!_

Kenya trapped in Datak's heavy arms, Kenya lit by fluorescent lights. Pink blood under Kenya's fingernails, white skin pinning her down. Red lips, red teeth. A black blouse to hide stained skin. Oh, Kenya!

Perhaps these thoughts were too pessimistic.

Perhaps Datak was not the culprit.

Perhaps Kenya had- once again- fled home in search of happiness.

_Perhaps I'll find her out here._

But Stahma was too intelligent to hope for such things.

She knew the facts.

She'd seen all the clues.

The worst, in this case, was the best Stahma could hope for.

 

Bright lights  
streaming through the trees  
from behind.

The violent and unmistakable rumble of of a roller overwhelmed Stahma's senses.

 _They've come after me,_ she thought; and already she'd begun to accept the fated end, the charged blade, the inevitable penance. Soon, Datak and his loyal minions would be upon her. Their hot, wretched breath would burn her skin; their eyes would tear apart her robes; their words would strip her of her dignity; their knives would tear apart her body. Maybe Kenya was with them. Maybe they'd make her watch.

Maybe Kenya was already dead.

Datak would spit upon them both and say, "A great shaming to the shanje liro."

 _And he wouldn't be wrong! He wouldn't be wrong,_ Stahma wanted to cry aloud. She heard the car door open, slam closed. Footsteps through the autumn brush.

 _I will not fight,_ Stahma promised herself. _I deserve this._


	13. Land That I Love

"Stahma?"

_What?_

She spun, slowly, as though doing so any faster would unravel the very cloth of time itself. But time was not disrupted; the moment remained still, and pregnant with underdeveloped emotion. Dark still was the night; tall still were the trees; solid still was the ground.

Alive still was... Kenya.

Small, granted. She was but mere silhouette amongst the forest trees. A thick, leather coat made of the majority of Kenya's volume.

But this frailty was only illusion.

Kenya was upright, strong, here, _alive!_

"Vari ya!" Stahma whispered. _You're alright._ Stahma's heart, now an entire choir, sang out in glorious celebration for the human's continued life. Stahma's tongue danced clumsily as she tried to find appropriate words- ones that would express not only her relief, but also her intention. At last, she breathed: "Why have you come here?"

"Amanda told me and I- I thought I'd bring you some... provisions," Kenya said, shuffling through a bag that had previously been hidden by her coat. Her hand emerged and produced a smaller sack, which Stahma, with hesitant footing, moved to retrieve. Stahma tucked it away with the rest of her belongings. Kenya then produced a second item: a flask, slender and silver and warm to the touch. "Hot cider," she explained, then weakly added, "'Tis the season?"

Stahma, for Kenya's benefit more than her own, smiled, and uncapped the flask before pressing it to her lips. " _Bihalazhwe._ " The cider ran hot and smooth down Stahma's throat, then settled into a warm ache in her empty gut. "I should be on my way now."

"And I wanted to say goodbye."

"Alright. Farewell, Kenya."

Kenya nodded resolutely and stepped in the direction from which she came. Her body, however, betrayed its own intention. It shivered in violent protest. But Stahma did not notice; for the night was dark and her senses were still somewhat numb, and she too was enveloped in her own bodily war, and was moved to call out- “Kenya!”

A long, heavy sigh. “What, Stahma?”

“What happened?”

“Datak and his buddies were just messing around. Forget it.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, Stahma- forget it. I gotta… I gotta go.”

Another step away.

Dry branches breaking beneath Kenya’s feet. Stahma’s thundering heart. Her silent tremble. The growing distance.

“Do you care for me?”

Kenya turned again, her eyes closed momentarily and her arms crossed over the top of her body. “Does it matter now?”

 _Her voice broke_  
just slightly  
on “matter.”

“Did I _matter_ to you?”

“Yeah. I guess you did.”

The answer was possessed by such a deadness, so devoid of meaning and weight that Stahma found it impossible to regard as any form of truth. Her body, thus, reacted as though Kenya had said much the opposite: Stahma’s features (invisible to Kenya from where she now stood) softened, and her lips puckered as though tasting something sour. “It was a new experience for me,” Stahma breathed. “Trusting someone outside of my liro- outside of my family- even having a family such as yours, Kenya… it was so new to me. And caring for you in such a way… it was… _exhilarating._ ”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“For you! For Amanda!”

“I don’t _want_ you to leave!”

Stahma shook her head in a slow, back-and-forth swing, tilting slightly, and stepped forward just enough so that Kenya could better see her. Kenya mimicked this step forward, but with far more decisiveness than Stahma had shown.

"This is the right thing to do, Kenya. If I stay, Datak will never stop-"

"Datak is gone. The VRC called in some law enforcers. He's gone, Stahma."

"-my family..."

"-Can be here!" Kenya pleaded. "With us! Come home, Stahma." Kenya's voice broke again, and it was evident this time that she'd been choking back a hard sob. The tears came freely now. Kenya readjusted her arms, and her teeth worried over her bottom lip. "Please come home."

"Oh, Kenya." Stahma held out her arms in offering, and the small human fell into them willingly. Stahma brought herself and Kenya slowly to their knees. She held Kenya's head close to her chest. "Shh. _Myeme tsa. Myeme tsa._ "

"Come home, Stahma. Please come home."

"Don't cry, my pretty human. I'll come home."

"You promise?"

A soft shiver wracked Stahma's body. Her gaze drifted upwards. Was this her god's will? Or was this a punishment? A test? Such an explanation felt likely, but the small girl cradeled in her arms felt too real and warm and in need of love to be any sort of punishment.

 _Be clear!_ Stahma begged silently. _Be clear in your intentions, Rayetso! And do not make this human suffer for my mistakes!_

"Promise me you'll come home, Stahma!"

"I promise."

Some short distance away, a roller waited. Amanda waited. A town of sleepers, of dreamers, of wide-eyed insomniacs and midnight criers all waited. Schoolwork waited. Teachers waited. Days, weeks, months, seasons waited.

None of that mattered.

 _Home,_ at long last, waited.

And home could wait five minutes more.

Kenya nestled deeper into Stahma's cloaks, and Stahma felt as the small girl's heaving chest steadied more with each intake of breath. Kenya smelled dirty, bitter, tainted with salt. She smelled of filthy Castithan hands, and of pungent leather. She smelled of life, of pink flesh- but not foul! She was not _foul!_

_My lover is not foul!_

And by Rayetso's mercy, she is alive!

 _"Ripshe ya,"_ Stahma murmured, her voice muffled by Kenya's hair. _"Vari ya."_  
Kenya shuddered and sighed.

"We gotta go."

"I know."

 

The door of the roller slammed shut. In the front seat, Amanda let out a long breath, stretched, and fumbled around the console.

The roller roared to life.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Stahma said: "Amanda, I'm-"

"-gonna go to bed as soon as you get home," Amanda finished. "You've had a long day, Stahma. We all have."

 

Wouldn't it be nice, Reader, if the story ended there? Wouldn't it be nice to assume that Stahma and Kenya lived happily ever after in a dull but contented lull? Would not you- or I, reader!- be satisfied to think this was, more or less, the beginning of the end of Stahma and Kenya's troubles?

Perhaps they all got home, exchanged wishes of sweet dreams and words of temporary parting, and then climbed into their respective beds. Perhaps Amanda and Stahma would talk again now that tension had eased, and they'd learn to coexist in peace. Amanda would become, in time, Stahma's close friend and sister. Bickering might occur on occasion between the three girls, but it would be petty. Infrequent. And in many ways, loving.

Such fantasies are too optimistic.

It is necessary that we follow the girls for some time longer so that we may come to understand the true nature of their problems; for their biggest problem was not, as we may have thus far believed, the relationship which existed between the two youngest of them.

So this is not happily ever after, Reader, but it is happiness for now; For when Stahma woke the next morning, she felt rested at last, and she turned to place an apologetic kiss to Kenya's exposed shoulder before tip-toeing out of the room. The air was cold, but the bath brought warm relief. Stahma sank into the tub, closed her eyes, and smiled to herself.

Happiness.

Still, the water stung the cracks in Stahma's pearl-like exterior.

There were reasons still not to be happy.

The bathroom door opened, and in stepped an unadjusted Kenya. Her eyes were but two narrow slits between thick lids. Her skin was pale, tinted yellow. Her lips smacked open and closed in lazy rhythm, and her nose crinkled slightly at the taste of morning.

She acknowledged Stahma with a tilt of the head and a sleepy grin.

"So you really have to wear those beads?"

"It would be terrible of me if I didn't."

Kenya bent down and rolled up the bottoms of her pajamas. She gestured towards the tub. "Is it okay if I dip my feet?"

"Go ahead."

Kenya swung her legs over the side of the tub and rested her weight on the tub's ledge. "'Terrible' is a word I'd use to describe that scumbag ex-boyfriend of yours," she said. "Not nudity."

Stahma sat up, and the water drained from over her with a tidal-like pull and _woosh._ "Kenya," Stahma said, her tone taking on a sharper quality, "I need you to tell me what happened last night."

Kenya pursed her lips, shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

"I will worry until you tell me." Stahma's hand rested on Kenya's leg, and Stahma moved so that she was looking up into Kenya's eyes. "If this is my home now, you are my family- my _zhurízibuna._ You need not keep things from me."

"That goes both ways."

"I'll... try to explain my previous relationship with Datak, if you so desire..."

"It's not just that. I hardly know you, Stahma! I don't even think I know your last name!"

Kenya's tone had been playful, but Stahma responded with the utmost seriousness. "Rosewater."

"Rosewater?" Kenya echoed, smirking.

"Rosewater," Stahma confirmed. She slithered upwards, and, with her free hand, cupped Kenya's chin and tipped it forward. With slow, fragile motion, Stahma placed a soft kiss to Kenya's lips. Kenya's eyes fluttered back open as Stahma murmured, "This is the family I've chosen. I fully intend to be a part of it."

Kenya smiled honestly at that. For a moment, it seemed as though she would say nothing, and was content enough to let the words linger, despite the adoration and gratitude that plagued her tongue. Yet Kenya was not the type to often hold back her emotions, and thus she confessed: "I've missed you."

"Missed my lips?" Stahma suggested, a slight smugness playing over her face. Kenya shook her head.

"I mean, maybe that too," Kenya admitted. "But lately you've just been so distant, and I know that- that what you went through was terrible and everything, but..."

"My communication was lacking."

"Yeah."

A beat of silence. Stahma flicked open the drain and held out her hand to Kenya. "Help me out," she said. "It's getting late. We can talk on the way to school."

 

Stahma kept her word: As she and Kenya made their way to school that morning, they talked. The conversation, however, consisted mostly of trivial information: Birthdays ("The sixth of February," had been Stahma's answer, to which Kenya replied: "June 30th;") favorite books, authors; previous relationships (a topic from which, to Stahma's surprise, even Kenya shied away;) and so on. Before class began, the two did not part ways as usual- they sat in the very last row, one girl next to the other. Stahma allowed her hand to rest in Kenya's lap, and Kenya traced it absently- though not without affection- as she rambled about the coming schoolday.

Mr. M meandered over, a flaking cigar between his teeth. Kenya's words trailed off into silence. Her grip grew tighter. Stahma, in that instant, became weary of nearby eyes, and took on an expression of tight composure. Mr. M removed the cigar from his lips.

"Have you been studying your text, Miss Rosewater?" he rasped.

"More or less."

"Then I think you'll find that history textbooks have a way of repeating themselves," he said, "for those who don't listen the first time."


	14. This Path We're On

Throughout class, Kenya felt Stahma's gaze upon her- but when she'd turn to look, Stahma's eyes were trained always on her own sketchbook.

"Are you drawing me?" Kenya whispered, hopeful.

"Yes," Stahma hissed, "So face forward and stop moving!"

Kenya obeyed.

But she could not fight the small tug at the corner of her lips.

Mr. M did not acknowledge either of our two subjects for the remainder of class. A time or two, he would wander near and make as if about to call on Kenya. But then he'd turn, remove the fat cigar from his lips, and continue talking.

The bell rang.

Stahma's sketchbook snapped shut, feet shuffles out of aisles, and bodies flooded the hallways.

Stahma lingered at the classroom door. Her hands were curled around the edges of her precious leather book, and her eyes danced frantically up and down the corridor. Kenya sighed.

"Come to FO, Stahma. Datak won't be there. It's okay."

The current of students flowed onward, onward, leaving hardly any room for the disruption that was Kenya. She thrust her arm outwards, and after a few long seconds, Stahma's hand interlocked with hers, and they were sent into a mad race down the hallway.

It felt kind of like...

Kenya recalled with clarity: blind feet, illuminated eyes, the grainy music coming in over the radio. The wooden floorboards protesting every movement. Stahma's shy smile. Spinning, stepping: One, two, three- one, two, three...

Dancing.

Kenya wanted to stop, to say: "Remember when we danced?" because in so many ways, this was the simple equivalent to, "Remember when I fell in love with you?"

Such questions would've been pathetic.

So instead, Kenya bit her tongue and ran and giggled the way a small girl does, and pulled Stahma out into the open courtyard. Kenya tossed her bag on the ground, and fell into the grass beside it.

Stahma, ever the more graceful, knelt down beside her companion's head. Her fingers worked over the fabric of her dress, smoothing each silver wrinkle. Stahma turned, finally, to Kenya. Her features were taught, strained. "They're looking at me, aren't they?" she whispered.

Kenya propped herself onto her elbows, glanced backwards, and frowned. "Who, the other Castis?" Stahma nodded. "Uh, I guess they kinda are. Why does it matter, Stahma?"

_"Ilo."_

Shame.  
"Stahma..."

Stahma turned to open her bag, and pulled forth a heavy binder. "I need to do my homework," she said. "You should do yours, too."

"Oh, who cares? I'm gonna fail most of my classes anyway."

Stahma pursed her lips. Her eyes flickered over the courtyard, the trees, the mingling sudents and shivering grass, and finally back to Kenya. In one quick swoop, Stahma thrust her hands over Kenya's hips, and captured Kenya's mouth with her own. Goosebumps rose on Kenya's flesh. She lay submissive and shocked for a few short moments. But as awareness crept into her body, Kenya's fingers struggled over Stahma's skin in a mad frenzy- grabbing first her neck, then her shoulders (and as consequence found her hands tangled in Stahma's falling hair,) then throwing her hands over the curve of Stahma's sides.

Somewhere in a classroom, a clock ticked, ticked. 8:20.

8:20 a.m. and Kenya was positively charged.

Electricity replaced the blood in her veins as Stahma's touch pulsed here, there, here. Sparks flew as the moisture of Kenya's mouth met the electric current flowing from Stahma's lips.

 _It's been too long,_ Kenya thought. Too long since she and Stahma had been anything but tentatively close. Too long since Stahma's weight had been _not enough_ rather than just a burden upon Kenya's heart. Too long since they'd kissed for more than a fleeting moment. Too long since-

Stahma pulled away.

A hard shiver wracked Kenya's body. Wind pricked at open lips. Kenya blinked once, twice.

When finally she turned, she found Stahma scribbling away in a notebook that lay beside her open AP Biology text. Kenya groaned.

"Stahmaaa..."

"Do your homework."

And Kenya obliged.

 

Come third fuavano, there was little left to do but sleep.

Kenya lay in Stahma's lap, allowing one hand to climb upwards and trace the line of Stahma's jaw. Stahma's white, woolen cloak draped over the two of them like a blanket. The wind blew strands of hair into Kenya's face, and each time, Stahma would brush them away with a gentle sweep of fingertips, and Kenya would flash her a warm, clumsy smile.

In that tired haze, it was easy to believe that they'd found peace at last. It was easy to believe the illusion of happiness.

But sleeves covered bruises, smiles covered insecurities, and the wall of Stahma's back hid the world's judgment.

It was all still there.

Remember this, reader! Remember this always! Remember that even in the happiest moments, there were still forces beating against our two lovers at every turn! Already they've come so far; it's a miracle they've not reached some fated end. But what should happen if for even a moment they forget to watch their backs? Remember for them, reader. Do little Stahma a favor so that she may, for the time, be at ease.

For even now, she was not.

Dear Kenya sensed this.

But Kenya was tired and she knew there were certain fears of which she alone could rid Stahma; thus she yawned and said: "Tell me about... your mother."

"My mother?"

"Mmmm."

"I haven't seen her in years," Stahma murmured. "I hardly remember..."

Kenya cut her off with a yawn and said, "There's gotta be... _something..._ "

"She was tall, and beautiful, and she loved me."

"Kinda sounds like me."

"You are so small..."

"Shhhh." Kenya's eyelids sank as her mind, at last, drifted from wakefulness. "I'm not done growing."

 

The walk home opened itself once more to discussion. The sun, nearly set, instilled a sense of urgency; Soon, the day would be gone, and a promise still would not be kept. A taciturn quality had overtaken Stahma; For ever time Kenya managed some statement of little or no importance (the color of the sky, for instance, or the massive amount of writing she still had to do for her creative writing paper,) Stahma would nod and utter at most a word or two.

All the while, dust gathered in the train of her cloak.

Stahma and Kenya stopped at the next corner, and Kenya ran her hand over the wooden street post. It read "Gyakpake St." in bold, black lettering. Down one end of the street lay a widespread green where Irathient citizens regularly gathered for religious festivals. Kenya knew this as a result of a solitary day of exploration upon which she'd embarked over the summer. The words and looks she'd recieved from the Iraths had been of confusion and amusement more so than anger (which Kenya had come to expect from her previous school's readings.) The other end of Gyakpake was home to an abandoned toy factory, half of which had been destroyed [Kenya assumed] in the L.E.W.

Despite its infamous status, the factory was something Kenya had learned of only recently.

"I was here when Datak's friends took me," Kenya said, her eyes trained on her feet. "I remember because, you know, this streetpost was the last thing I saw. When they took me out of the roller, we were down there-" Kenya gestured vaguely to the left- "outside the factory."

"I am so sorry, Kenya." Stahma ran her hands down the length of Kenya's arms, and pulled Kenya close so that she may bury her senses in the depths of Kenya's hair. "You must have been frightened."

"Kinda. At first. More like... shocked. But by the time I got out of the roller, I'd come to accept that the easiest thing I could do was just accept it."

"Did he touch you?"

"Datak? No, he- he was at the factory and he _said_ some pretty nasty things, but he didn't lay a hand on me, Stahma. The other boys did all the work, and even that wasn't- there wasn't any... you know..." Kenya trailed off with a tired sigh. She slung her hands together behind Stahma's back, and leaned back just enough so that she could look up into Stahma's eyes. "After they locked me up, though... _God,_ I was scared then. I knew I was bait, and I was just so scared that'd you'd come there and he'd kill you and I wouldn't even know- I'd just be... left to rot in that damned closet. I prayed that you wouldn't come after me, Stahma. But then Amanda and the VRC took over and... I found out that you'd... left."

"I am terribly sorry, Kenya."

"It's fine," Kenya said. "I think we've both been through worse."

Nightfall came, and again the illusion of absolute peace blinded the two young lovers. Kenya's top had been removed and folded neatly beside her. Kenya pulled blankets close to her chest but left her back exposed so that Stahma, who lay to Kenya's right, might trace words upon Kenya's bare skin. Kenya asked what, exactly, Stahma was writing, and Stahma's finger had paused just long enough for Stahma to think and then say:

"Poetry."

Poetry of which Kenya was never able to catch a word; for Stahma's finger was quick and the air was cold and Kenya's mind danced constantly between the visions that clouded tired eyelids and the feeling of pressure over autumn gooseflesh.

"Sleep," Stahma whispered.

And that was the last thing Kenya heard before nightmares filled her head.

How aware is the reader of Kenya's tragic past with an individual by the name of Hunter Bell? He has been mentioned a small handful of times thus far, but still the narrative has neglected to describe in detail the relationship that existed between him and dearest Kenya. The time to discuss the relationship, however, has still not come. His name is brought up only briefly; for it was he that plagued Kenya's nightmare.

It should be mentioned that Kenya had not (prior to this particular week) experienced Hunter-related frights since that summer. Her experience with Datak, however, had once more aroused such fear.

She awoke from her nightmare and immediately made the following observations:

She was wrapped in a blanket she did not recall seeing upon falling asleep, and the right side of the bed was empty.

Salt coated Kenya's lips.

Her cheeks were wet.

Kenya rose from the bed and stumbled towards the door, shielding her eyes from the outside light. Soft voices sounded from down the hall. Hearing these, Kenya hesitated. Would Amanda and Stahma (for these were most certainly the persons to which the voices belonged) be angry with Kenya for interrupting? Suppose Kenya's very presence managed to hinder the flow of an important conversation?

Kenya tip-toed onward. Stahma's voice met her ears.

"-and I know he's... gone, but I can't help fearing that he might..." Stahma trailed off. "She's so vulnerable."

"My sister isn't _weak_."

"But she's in a vulnerable position! As am I! Datak was my security, my invulnerability. Without him, I am at the mercy of _mibuniro,_ and as long as Kenya associates with me, she is as well."

"So, what- are you planning to leave again?"

"Nothing of the sort! I just- I fear for her safety, so much so that I can hardly seem to sleep."

"You love her."

"I do."

A long sigh (Amanda's, presumably) followed, and then Amanda said: "You know we lost our mother during the war, right?" Pause. "I was with Mom when the volge attacked for the second time. I'd stayed home that day- had the flu or something- but Kenya was at school and... Mom came up to me and told me to start packing. I asked her if I should pack Kenya's bag, too. She shook her head. Eventually I asked if Kenya was coming with us, and our mother looked at me and said that there wasn't any time. She walked out the door for good, and I ran to find Kenya. We stayed in that town for eight years."

"Your mother isn't dead."

"It was the easiest lie," Amanda admitted. "I don't know whether or not she's actually dead, but she's dead to me. She abandoned us. She abandoned _Kenya._ I sure as hell hope you won't do the same."

Kenya didn't know she'd been crying until she crawled into bed once more and caught a hot tear on her tongue.

But soon enough, Stahma had returned, and her hands caressed Kenya's rigid form.

"I know you're awake," Stahma murmured. "I'm here now, little _Pyeniko._ Go to sleep."


	15. Perpetual Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter to move the story along. On vacation at the moment and I've had a busy month. Sorry for late updates!

Saturday morning: Kenya and Stahma sat back to back in a tub of slowly cooling water. Kenya's eyelids fluttered open, closed, open, then closed again as she settled into a mild slumber. Droplets of water sprayed over her bare chest as Stahma shifted, and asked in a low whisper: "What's the date?"

"The twenty-fifth," Kenya mumbled. "Shhh."

Stahma turned and brushed her thumb over Kenya's jaw. "Stay awake," she breathed. "Are you hearing me, Kenya?"

"Mmhmm."

"Halloween is approaching."

"Yep." A fit of coughs eased Kenya into wakefulness. "What, do you celebrate it?"

"Gao. My parents believed it was a night of evil and filth. Human children's costume mockeries of our kind did nothing to ease this notion."

"Oh. Sorry," Kenya said, yawning. "Amanda and I always carve pumpkins and watch the Scream trilogy. We had a DVD player back at the other place, but we sold it off before we came here."

"Kenya, what is that?"

"Nothing."

Stahma's hand locked Kenya's arm. Scarlet splatters lined the flesh just below Kenya's inner elbow. It was wet, despite having rested on the tub's outer edge for the majority of the bath, and dotted with bubbles of sickly pink saliva. Kenya's body sank lower into the water, and her head lolled back on Stahma's shoulder.

"You're bleeding," Stahma hissed. Kenya groaned.

"It's just from coughing."

Stahma's fingers moved rapidly  
to Kenya's lips and came away stained with speckled red. Sweat was slick on Kenya's flesh, and heat burned at the surface of her skin. "Kenya, you need to see a Doctor."

"Mmm."

"You need to get up."

"I'm so tired... my head hurts..."

 _"Rayetso!"_ Stahma slipped her hands beneath Kenya and struggled to stand. She carried Kenya from the bathroom, her beads digging into to Kenya's side and the back of Stahma's neck. "Amanda! Amanda!"

Amanda came marching from the front bedroom, her arms tense at her sides. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Kenya. She's-"

Pale, sweating, dry-lipped, dark-eyed, drooling blood; The symptoms spoke for themselves. Amanda stepped back in a ghostly sweep, and said: "I'll start the roller. Get some clothing on her. Now."

Thus passed the following minutes: Flying through the house, Kenya's body in arm; Dressing her in a cotton tee and sweatpants and struggling to do so; Grabbing a robe, a blanket from a pile of clean clothing and a glass of water from the kitchen; then cramming into the roller and driving in a silence tortured by Kenya's ragged breath.

Stahma wrapped herself in her robe and dripped water over Kenya's forehead.

"I just need to sleep," Kenya rasped.

"No, my pretty human. No. You're terribly ill."

Amanda's eye caught Stahma's, and her grip on the wheel tightened.

 

The clinic reeked of-

Not death.

But surely illness.

Stahma's senses reeled to compute her surroundings: white, sterile lights; Stacked chairs on the side of the room; bodies on cots lined row after row; unorganized coughs sounding from every corner; the hum of machines; the smell of blood; Kenya mumbling that she was _fine_ and they should go _home_...  
Two Indogenes took Kenya from Amanda's arms and transferred her to a canvas cot. "Stage three," one of them said. "Entering stage four." The other turned to Amanda.

"You need to leave."

"Excuse me? I'm her family. You need to tell me what's going on."

"We're experiencing an outbreak of a new strain of viral hemorrhagic fever. Only humans and Irathients are susceptible. She has eight hours maximum to live if untreated. If you don't leave, you'll be sick within an hour."

"I can't leave her."

"Go," Stahma interjected. "I'm not at risk. I'll stay."

"Stahma, you can't-"

"Leave."

Amanda's gaze drifted across the room. Conflict registered on her face, but understanding registered in her eyes, and at last she stepped back and unfolded her arms. "Fine. I'll go."

Amanda hesitated once more at Kenya's side.

She took another step backwards, turned around, and left.

"Bek," one of the Indogenes called, "clear a room. We have a stage four."

"Stage four," Kenya mumbled. "Is that me?"

"Yes," Stahma replied through gritted teeth, "that's you."

As Kenya's cot was wheeled into a makeshift treatment room- a room that typically served as an office, Stahma guessed, judging by the size- Stahma followed close behind and struggled to keep Kenya's face in sight. Another body was wheeled from the room on a bloody cot, and as it passed by, Stahma caught a glimpse of open and lifeless eyes buried in two dark and sunken circles.

 _It's not Kenya,_ Stahma reminded herself. _And that_ won't _be Kenya._

"Get her on an IV."

"Injecting treatment A in 3, 2, 1-"

"Body temperature is 102.2 degrees."

"The patient is responsive."

Kenya coughed, wheezed. Stahma paced in and out of the room, passed by Bek who was smoking a cigarette in the hall and saying, "If you ask me, the I-rath flu should've wiped out the human race decades ago." Stahma paced back in, caressed the side of Kenya's face and was told to "please step aside." Her body quaked. She wondered if the doctors had been wrong- perhaps Castithans, too, could be affected. Perhaps the deep ache in her stomach was stage one- the stage Kenya had hidden so well.

But it wasn't.

Stahma swallowed the guilty knowledge that she was safe and immune while Kenya charged towards her last breath.

Eyes closed, Stahma stood in the corner

And prayed.

 

The chaos eventually calmed as all chaos does.

And even then, there was a different sort of chaos wreaking havoc in Stahma's heart.

The doctors had left, though every ten minutes or so someone would come in to check Kenya's temperature, her heart rate, her responsiveness. Blood still dripped from the corners of her lips and eyes. All the while, Stahma sat at her side and kept an even closer watch over her frail lover. She dabbed away each crimson streak, kept her head cool with ice and water. She sang, soothed, caressed. Kenya woke once, smelled the salt on Stahma's cheeks, and asked, "Am I dying?"

Stahma remembered how her body revolted, how her stomach lurched and her muscles tensed when she'd heard Doctor Jeb say, "it _is_ fatal." She remembered the words that had followed, how she'd clung desperately to each alternate ending. She knew the numbers.

She knew Kenya's chances were bad.

But Stahma Rosewater told a lie the way anyone else might tell a truth, and so she smiled and forced a laugh and said, "No, no. You're getting better. Rest."

Prayer and song eased the long hours. Eventually, the seventh hour came to pass, then the eighth, and still Kenya's breath came and went.   
A knock at the door was followed by, "Miss, someone is waiting for you outside," and so Stahma kissed Kenya's temple and exited the clinic.

Fresh air filled Stahma's lungs, and Amanda's rigid figure greeted her gaze.

"Hey," Amanda said stiffly. "How is she?"

"Alive," Stahma offered. "She's sleeping right now. They're still not letting any uninfected humans into the clinic."

"Shtako. I know." Amanda exhaled. "Have you been crying?"

"No-" Stahma's fingertips caught a stray tear and absently brushed it away. "I'm fine."

"Alright. C'mon. We gotta get back."

"Someone needs to be here with Kenya."

"They'll keep her overnight. I already talked to Doc Jeb. There's nothing we can do."

"I won't leave."

"At least let me drive you home for dinner and a change of clothes. You can't sleep at the clinic in a jacket and bath beads."

"You will drive me back afterwards?"

"Sure."

"Okay," Stahma agreed. "I'll come."

The inside of the roller still smelled of Kenya's illness. Guilt once more settled in Stahma's gut as the roller pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road. _She might die alone,_ Stahma thought. _She mightn't know how I worried and cared._

Yet Stahma feigned nonchalance as best she could, if only for Amanda's benefit.

"I appreciate you staying with her," Amanda said as they pulled up to the house. "But Kenya is a strong girl. She has good people taking care of her. She'll be fine."

To Stahma's ears, Amanda's optimism was only the strongest form of denial.


	16. Daimya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short update. On my last day of vacation, and frankly, I've no idea if that means I'll be writing more or less from this point forward.

Time passed slowly for Kenya.

Or so she thought.

In all honesty, she'd lost all sense time. The span between one waking and the next could've easily been five minutes or five hours.  
Her throat burned, and her eyes stung as though being pierced by a thousand needles. Molten lava and liquid ice surged in alternation through her veins. She tasted salt and blood on her lips with every conscious breath. The blood, she knew, was her own, but the salt fell with someone else's tears.

Few things struck such a fear in Kenya as waking to find Stahma crying and chanting in broken Kasti.

Kenya wanted to console her, to say, "I'm okay! I'm here!" But Kenya could be sure of neither; For her waking reality was now so strange and solemn that she could not be sure it was reality at all.

She never saw Amanda.

But she did see Doc Jeb, Pok, Kit, and whispy Bek, who appeared less and less frequently as time dragged on. She'd taken a liking to Bek, although Bek didn't seem to have the same appreciation for Kenya; She never looked upon Kenya with kind eyes, and answered Kenya's questions only in short barks. But she was _interesting_ and _unique_ and impossibly self-loathing, and Kenya wanted to understand.

The clinic calmed and darkened with what Kenya assumed to be the fall of night. Her eyes were open and bleary when Stahma entered the room again, clad in a night dress and single braid. She eased Kenya's body slightly to the right and lay down beside her. The new position induced an ache in Kenya's arm and neck, but she complained not. Stahma's lips pressed fervently against Kenya's back.

"Don't leave me," Stahma begged. "Don't leave me yet."

But the words were only imagined.

 _They must be,_ Kenya thought. _Stahma would never act so weak._

And so Kenya imagined that she'd also heard a soft, _"Myeme tsa. I love you."_

She dreamed that she and Stahma were on opposite shores of a calm river.

Stahma slipped in with all intenton of swimming across, but the calm became a rushing current. It pulled Stahma further and further downstream, tossing her under waves and against rocks. Kenya ran along the shore. Grass and mud caught between her toes; the ground gave easily beneath her feet. "Swim!" she shouted. And Stahma tried. She _tried._

And drowned.

She woke screaming and cold with blood on her tongue, but Stahma's ready hand pressed cold water to her lips. A nurse- or so Kenya guessed; for she did not see, but rather heard the approaching and then halting footsteps- came quickly to the doorway, and Stahma waved her out.

"She's fine," Stahma hissed. And to Kenya she breathed, "just a dream?"

"Just a dream," Kenya agreed, feeling flames in the back of her throat. Her words cracked and burned at the edges. "Where's Amanda?"

"Sleeping," Stahma whispered. The cot protested as Stahma shifted, pressing closer to Kenya's back. "And you should be, too."

_Am I dying?_

 

Two died overnight.

Five more fell ill.

Stahma was gone from the bed by the time Kenya woke and found the clinic abuzz and alight once more. A turn of the head, however, assured Kenya that Stahma was still present.

This Stahma was far more familiar to Kenya than the Stahma had woken to in the day previous. Stahma was sitting, watching, as quietly and distantly as Kenya had come to expect. Her eyes were low, her hands were clasped. Two thick braids near her ears were pinned back behind her head. She was clean, elegant.

Her expression was one of painful indifference.

But this Stahma- as indifferent as she often appeared- was the same Stahma that would sit and play with her hair at night and whisper sweet words. This was a predictable Stahma- a Stahma smart enough not to fall victim to the rushing current.

"Goodmorning," Kenya said, and Stahma answered with a vacant nod.

"It's 13:00," she replied. "Good afternoon."

"Oh."

"Doc Jeb said you're recovering."

"I feel better. I think."

"That's good."

"I wish I could talk to Amanda," Kenya said. Her voice cracked, and her hand stumbled instinctively over the night stand. "I need water."

"I'll go get you some."

The door clicked behind Stahma.

And the clock _ticked, ticked, ticked-_

Towards what?

Perhaps Kenya felt _better,_ but she did not feel well. Her throat was still parched and raw, her limbs were inexplicably sore. Shivers ran the length of her spine. Was this "recovery" nothing more than a short reprieve before the end?

When would time run out?

Her mother's face as Kenya ran off to school on that final day; The towering volge; bombs and bullets raining over the town; Hunter's hands, once loving, turned violent and full of murderous intent; Dust clouding around the roller as they said goodbye to home; Hot pink liquid burning a path over Stahma's broken flesh; blood spraying from her lips; hiding. Sleeping. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. _Tick, tick, tick._

It would be so much easier if only...

Stahma slipped through the door and pressed icy glass to Kenya's lips. Water poured over her tongue, ran down her throat. Stahma's fingers tightened around the glass.

"You're bleeding again," she said. "From your eyes." Anger laced her words and clouded her eyes. It was as though the blood had done something to personally offend her, to insult her _marusha._ Every syllable off her tongue left tainted with a sour bite. Her lips puckered. Her fingers (which, once no longer supporting the vessel from which Kenya drank- scrambled to find a clean tissue on the narrow nightstand) grew rigid and harsh in movement. She blotted away the blood from Kenya's lower eyelids, then balled the soiled napkin tightly in her fist.

"Your mixed-blood nurse has fallen ill," Stahma said. "She's been off duty since late last night."

"Bek?" Kenya clarified. Stahma dipped her head.

"She's refusing treatment."

"But that's suicide."

"Perhaps." Stahma stood abruptly, a polite smile curling over her lips. "I don't mean to gossip. I'm going to find you something to eat. Someone should be in with your next injection soon. Are you fine on your own for a while?"

"I guess."

"Good." Stahma's hand reached for Kenya's, kissed it, and returned it to Kenya's side. She slipped out the door before there was time enough to say anything more.

Eventually, Doc Kit entered with a slender syringe. A dainty needle bit Kenya's skin, and clock ticked ever onward.

 

Sleep, again.

What else was there to do?

At least in sleep she could talk without pain.

And so she dreamt that she was standing beside Stahma once more, and Stahma's skin was warm and pink.

 

When she woke, Stahma was kneeling in the corner of the room, eyes closed and head down. Kenya guessed briefly that she was sleeping, but a second more and Kenya could see clearly that Stahma's lips were moving, and her limbs were taut with purpose rather than slackened by slumber.

"Stahma?"

No response.

"Stahma?"

"Shh! _Umya ksa myunda!_ "

_Not now._

A long sigh escaped Kenya's body. She settled back into the cot, tired but patient out of necessity, and attempted to make out the hushed strings passing from Stahma's mouth.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Soft footsteps made their way to  
Kenya's bedside. Beads rattled.

"Myeme tsa, Kenya."

Kenya's eyes stared upwards, simultaneously considering and dismissing the hexagonally tiled ceiling. "Why were you praying?"

"I was asking Rayetso to have mercy on you," Stahma said softly, "and to punish me instead."

Kenya ran her tongue over her lips. "You really think your god has any power over me?"

"Rayetso watches over all."

"Well," Kenya replied, yawning, "I'd say right now, he's pretty angry with both of us."

It was a comment that Kenya had meant lightly, a sort of compromise for, _"Hey, don't worry. We're in this together;"_ for Kenya's lips quirked upwards and her head tilted in a playful manner. Stahma, however, nodded solemnly, as though she'd took the words to instead mean, _"We're both completely fucked."_ And she believed it.

"I brought soup," Stahma said, reaching for a capped thermos on the nightstand. "You've hardly eaten since you've been here."

"Maybe Rayetso doesn't want me to eat," Kenya said, and yawned again. "I feel like maybe I should just... sleep some more..."

" _Gao,_ Kenya. You'll wither away. Now, sit up."

 

The night passed just as the previous one; slowly, with Stahma's strong figure pressed protectively against Kenya's back. Morning was announced before it even came; For even Stahma had not yet risen when the silence was interrupted by a sharp knock and then immediate entrance. Doc Pok clapped her hands and flipped on the lights in a show of faux enthusiasm, saying, "Up and out, Casti. It's my turn to play doctor."

Stahma, though rattled and unwanting to leave, said her goodbyes and tucked her portion of the sheet under Kenya, and directed a hostile glare towards the offending Indogene as she exited the room.

"Alright, Miss Rosewater. Give me your arm."

"What's the date?"

"October twenty seventh. Other arm, please."

"How much longer until I can leave?"

"You can't leave until you're cleared, kid." The doctor pulled a hand-sized scanner from her tray and ran it over Kenya's body. Two short beeps followed. "You've got a hundred degree fever and you're still contagious. You're in here for at least another day. But hey, at least you've got Miss Shanje Liro to keep you company."

"But I can't see my sister."

"Not my problem," the doctor deadpanned. "Unless she gets sick. _Then_ she's my problem." Pok peeled off her gloves in two awkward motions. The latex groaned and snapped before relenting and folding into the doctor's open pockets. "I'll tell the nurse to remove your last IV. You want me to send your girlfriend back in here?"

Kenya winced, nodded, and mumbled a short word of thanks.


	17. Something Borrowed, Something Blanc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling quite lame lately for posting such short chapters, but I also feel that extending them any more would make for an awkward transition. Please accept my apology.

Kenya was not released from the clinic until Saturday November 1st, 2065.

In that week, the following occurred:

Kenya slept a total of 142 hours and lost fifteen pounds. This second part was, of course, much to Stahma's dismay; for as she dressed Kenya on that last day in the clinic, Stahma halted to place her hands on Kenya's waist and remark, "you've grown so thin."

"Easier to carry," Kenya pointed out.

A look of genuine concern took hold of Stahma's usually so rigid features, and she murmured,  
"Easier to break."

Ten patients died, nine of which Kenya did not know. The tenth was Bek, whose death was whispered between rooms and then dismissed with the bat of an eye. Upon hearing the news, Kenya's lips curved into a deep and troubled frown.

"You needn't dwell on it," Stahma said.

To that, Kenya did not reply.

Thirty two patients were cleared and released.

Stahma skipped five days of school- more than she'd skipped in her entire seventeen years.

And that damn clock did not stop.

 

Eight o'clock: Kenya came slowly from the room she'd occupied for the last seven days. Her left arm was wrapped around Stahma's back; and Stahma, likewise, had her own arm set firmly on Kenya's opposite side. "I'm fine," Kenya had insisted as Stahma tied off Kenya's second and final braid. Stahma had then pulled the two braids even, examined Kenya from the front, and cupped her chin and smiled sweetly.

"You've been in bed all week," Stahma had cooed. "And sick. You can hardly stand, my rose."

Kenya's nose had crinkled in reply. "You've been babying me all week."

Now, Kenya did not dare to complain; for her legs trembled even _with_ Stahma's steady support.

And any excuse to be near Stahma, any excuse to touch her...

The first cold breath of November rushed over Kenya as the clinic door- at last!- swung shut behind her. The concrete sidewalk quickly dissipated into packed dirt, winding around the building and bringing into sight-

Amanda. Arms folded, braced against the breeze. Blonde streaks whipped across her face, and her hip rested against the rusted vehicle at her side.

Kenya struggled forward, pulling desperately from Stahma's grip and falling into her sister's arms with a high-pitched, _"Amanda!"_

"Feeling better?"

"Well, I'm not bleeding from my eyes and nose now," Kenya joked. "I'm really pissed that I missed Halloween, though. You better jeking not have carved pumpkins without me."

Stahma quirked her head curiously (but, true to character, politely.) Amanda returned the look with a raised eyebrow and a smirk that said, _"Told you so."_

"Aeeh, you didn't miss much," Amanda assured. "Let's get you home."

Like a porcelain doll, Kenya's frail form was carried and tucked into the rear of the roller, then padded generously with blankets Amanda had gathered beforehand. Stahma sat in front, but allowed Kenya to pull her hand backwards so that Kenya may toy with her thin fingers.

The roller roared and started. Under Amanda's guidance, the vehicle made quickly onto the main road. "Any special instructions from the Doc?"

"Uh, not that I-"

"Limited physical activity until she's fully recovered and regained her strength," Stahma cut in. "I also have some prescription antibiotics in my bag. Doctor Jeb wants her to take two a day- with dinner, preferably- for the next two weeks."

"Damn," Kenya said. "I'm being mothered by my sisters."

Amanda nodded. "Thank you, Stahma. And Kenya, please rethink that sentence."

 

"Can I look yet?"

"Slower, Kenya. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Stahmaaa..."

"Open your eyes."

 _They lied to me,_ Kenya thought. _I've been in a coma. I've slept through all of November. It's..._

Kenya scrunched her nose and peered curiously at the room around her. "...Christmas?"

Everything was covered in snow.

Or- not snow, Kenya observed. Fake snow. Or perhaps not even 'snow' as much as just an overload of _white_ decor; Webs woven from thin thread hung in corners and over walls. Small ghosts draped in white cloth floated inches from the ceiling, suspended from various strings. Pumpkins- pumpkins! More pumpkins than Kenya had ever seen at once; for they were scarce and expensive and rarely obtainable in large numbers- of every shape and size lined the mantle, the perimeter of the room! And all were painted in shades of ivory, of white, with varying but delicate and simple patterns and silver glitter that made each glow and shine like a full moon.

Stahma's lips pulled taught; her eyes hardened. "Halloween," she corrected stiffly, and Kenya embraced her with the hand that was not already gripping Stahma's waist.

"It's lovely," she insisted. "Perhaps just a bit... overboard and... cheery."

"I-I'm sorry, I did some research while I wasn't at the clinic and I-"

"Stahma, it's gorgeous. You really did all this?"

A short nod. Guarded eyes. Kenya's lips pressed clumsily, briefly to a rigid frown, and the insistence of, "I love it."

Amanda's bouncing form strode into the unseasonal wonderland. She had a large aluminum bowl propped between one arm and her hip, and a short stack of DVDs clutched in her other hand. "And now that you're home, we can watch the Scream Trilogy. And eat lots of candy."

She shook the bowl at her hip which did, indeed, contain a great and varied assortment of candies. Kenya, who was now wrapped around Stahma and had her head turned awkwardly in Amanda's direction, gave a wide grin and hissed, "Yes!" before pausing and stating dumbly, "but we don't have a DVD player or a TV."

"Okay, true," Amanda agreed, "but the VRC does own a projector, which I may or may not have... well, borrowed?"

"Oh my God, Amanda."

"Hey, it's not a big deal. Ask Stahma how she got all these pumpkins. That's _way_ sketchier."

"Staaahma? How d'ya get all these pumpkins?"

"I have some connections left over from my relationship with Datak. I paid them with false information of his whereabouts."

"Holy shtako," Kenya breathed. "You guys are crazy. It's just _halloween._ "

Amanda snorted. "If you don't want to-"

"Oh no no no. C'mon, Stahma. We're watching Scream."

 

The hours passed in a dark, sugary haze. Amanda blocked the light from the windows with the blankets which had previously occupied the back seat of the roller. The projector beeped and whirred in a crazed fit before doing as bid. Then, at last, the light blinked upon the opposite wall. Thus began Stahma's first and last traditional Rosewater halloween experience.

Come evening, candy bar wrappers were scattered about the sofa and piled in the once-filled bowl sitting upon the coffee table. Both of Stahma's hands were tangled in Kenya's hair, whose head lay over Stahma's lap. "I think she's asleep," Stahma said as Amanda rose to her feet and began to gather the remnants of sweets strewn about her. "I'm not sure that I should get up."

"Well, stay if you're comfortable."

"I want to help."

"Oh, shut up. You've helped more than enough this week. Go take a bath or a nap or something."

Kenya attempted, groggily, to lift her head, but she sank back down and instead mumbled, "don't leave me."

A light sigh passed from Stahma's lips. Her thumb danced over Kenya's temple. "I'll bring her to her room."

"Alright," Amanda called from the kitchen. "No fucking until she's fucking recovered, Stahma." A pause, and then: "I'll be back! I'm running to the store to get scotch!"

Kenya smiled and pressed her face to Stahma's shoulder. Her arms slung around her lover's neck as Stahma carried her onwards to their shared room, each step as methodical and carefully placed as the _tick, tick, ticking_ of the clinic clock. "I told you I'm-" Kenya yawned, edited, and repeated: "I told you I'd be easier to carry."

The bed hardly budged beneath Kenya's weight (or rather lack thereof,) but dipped significantly as Stahma lay down in parallel. The crimson sheets contrasted against Kenya's warm skin brought Stahma's mind reeling back to the nightmare she'd lived only a week before: The blood splattered across Kenya's skin, the scarlet leaking from her eyes. Kenya, seemingly unaware of terror clouding Stahma's mind, grinned lazily and whispered: "I'm more awake now."

"I can see that."

"Staaahma." Kenya inched forward, placing her palm on the outer face of Stahma's thigh. "What're you thinking about?"

"You," Stahma deadpanned.

"What about me?"

A look crossed over Stahma's face that Kenya recalled seeing only once before- in the cold of the woods on the night of her capture, when Stahma's resolve started to melt to make way for pain. It was an open look, an honest look, a look plagued by desperation and necessitated by confession: Her eyes narrowed, her brow fell. Her lips opened helplessly.

"I was afraid I had lost you," Stahma breathed. "For the second time!- I was so sure that I'd lose my _family._ It was... frightening, Kenya."

"But I'm here!" Kenya chirped, reaching upwards to tuck away a loose strand of Stahma's hair.

_"Hinjila."_

"Hin-ji-la," Kenya repeated slowly with arguably awkward pronunciation, eliciting a low giggle from the Castithan beside her.

"Hinjila," Stahma said again. "I know."

"Oh. Duh. 'Hinjila' that." Kenya sighed and rolled onto her back, both arms outstretched and eyes facing upward. She squinted, watching as the ceiling came in and out of focus. "Stahma?"

"Mmm?"

"What are we?"

"You are my... _buléno._ "

Kenya rolled her eyes. "Great. What a healthy friendship."

"What are your human words to describe such a relationship?"

A brilliant red crept into Kenya's cheeks as she stammered, "Girlfriends?"

"That sounds so petty and temporary," Stahma protested. "As most human affairs are."

"Well, I can't think of anything less temporary!" Kenya huffed. "We're not _married."_

"Mmm."

"Sisters."

"Oh, _Rayetso_..."

"I'm kidding!" Kenya rolled over once more so that she was laying quite nearly on top of Stahma. The top of her head reached only as far as Stahma's jutted chin. "Hey, you know what Amanda told me?"

"What did Amanda tell you?"

"Amanda said that you asked her to bathe with you almost every single day this week. Not cool, Stahma."

"She's very upset about it and I can't understand why."

"Humans don't do that shit, Stahma! I'll bathe with you because I'm _jeking_ in love with you, but Amanda is my-"

"You're in love with me?" Stahma teased. The rouge of Kenya's cheeks deepened.

"Banngo!"

"Shh. My... _fandeto."_

"Fandeto? That's so... apathetic."

"No, no. It's more intimate," Stahma replied. "And has far more meaning than your temporary labels."

"Fandeto," Kenya repeated. She curled her tongue around each syllable- tasting it, testing its weight. Satisfied, she smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to Stahma's bottom lip. "I can roll with that."


	18. Telo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenya mourns the death of Bek

"Sweet rose, something is upsetting you."

Kenya glanced up from her untouched breakfast plate and dropped both utensils to the table with a dull clang. She sunk back in her chair, felt the wooden columns pushing into her flesh. The Sunday morning air was stale and stagnant in her lungs, but Stahma's lavender gaze made fresh each breath and washed the tension from Kenya's lips.

"Bek," Kenya said simply. Stahma's mouth curled in faux understanding, and Kenya felt her own fingers curl into tight fists at her sides.

"Yes, she was indeed a... strange being. "

"She died- she killed _herself_ , Stahma, and no one gwoking _cared!"_  
Stahma's eyes dipped. "Maybe this isn't the best conversation right-"

"-they all barked at her like her only purpose was to-"

"-they were _giving_ purpose to an immoral being! She surely had little thought enough to make anything else of herself in this world, Kenya. Her passing was a mercy."

"Her passing was _fucking suicide._  
"You hardly know the circumstances of-"  
"She's an intelligent being! She knew what refusing treatment would do!" Kenya's face grew hot, flushed, and bubbling poison threatened to burst from Stahma's lips. "What if that was my child, Stahma? What if that was _our-"_

_"We would never be stupid enough to create such a monster!"_

Stahma's bared teeth recoiled quickly behind a softening smile.

Kenya was silent.

 _This,_ she thought, was perhaps why their relationship had been doomed from the very beginning. Though agreement could easily be found under an emotional context, the two girls (or women, rather; for graduation was just around the corner and childhood was long gone) were hard-pressed to find any moral common ground.

They'd been told different fairytales; they'd grown up on different books. They'd entertained different friends and been fed different words. Stahma had grown up playing _Marusha_ and _Ivali_ while Kenya and Amanda played a deadly game of hide and seek among the wreckage of the volge. While Stahma learned to duck her eyes, Kenya learned to keep hers peeled.

Any oversight could mean the absolute end.

Any slip of the tongue could bring down Daddy's strong hand.

_We were just too different from the start._

"You're still scared, Stahma," Kenya murmured. Stahma shook her head, smiling.

"Don't take it so personally," Stahma breathed, her teeth cradling each word as though she were telling the most precious of lies. "I don't want you to think that I feel that way about- I love you deeply, Kenya."

"Dammit, Stahma!" Kenya pushed back from the table and stood, arms tightly crossed over her chest. "I know you _'love'_ me, Stahma! For God's sake, I know how much you've sacrificed! I don't doubt that anymore, and I don't doubt that you want this to work just as much as I do, no matter how much you keep fighting against it. 'I love you' sounds like such a lie from your lips, but I don't need to hear it to believe it."

"Sit, Rose. I don't understand-"

"You've already broken one of _mibuniro's_ precious rules and I hate that you act as though you're still under any obligation to follow all the others!"

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

Amanda's bedroom door opened with a low _creak,_ and a head of tidy blonde hair peered out. Amanda's expression was hesitant, cautious.

"Is there a problem, girls?"

Stahma reached slowly, calmly for Kenya's hand and held it between two of her own. "Lovers' quarrel," Stahma said with feigned amusement. "We're fine, Amanda."

"Are you gwoking kidding me?" Kenya yanked her hand back- and, having nothing to actually _do_ with said hand, reached instinctively upwards and pulled her hair back with an elastic. "She's being a short-sighted idiot."

"So now we've resorted to name calling?" Amanda scoffed.

No answer.

"Alright. I have a lot of work to do this morning, and I don't have time to deal with-" Amanda waved her hand to indicate her two siblings- "this. So here's what's going to happen: Kenya, you're going to go to your room and catch up on school work. Stahma, I'm going to give you some scrip and you're going to go for a walk and pick up some nail polish or something, okay? After I finish this paper, we're going to sit down and have a family meeting. All of us."

"Amanda, it was just _one_ dumb argument."

"Kenya-"

"Fine, fine. I'm leaving, alright?" Kenya's eyes caught and locked on Stahma's. "I'm stepping away."

If Stahma had been someone else- a human, perhaps, with dark hair and red blood that rushed beneath warm and pink skin; and eyes deep and brown- her expression might have been softer, more apologetic. If dignity had not clouded her emotions, Stahma might've given in to the foreign desire to call out, to say: "I'm sorry; That was insensitive of me. Stay." But Stahma's nature was instead to hide behind the clarity of indifference, to hold her tongue, to turn and walk purposefully from the room as though it'd been an idea of her very own.

And thus Kenya left an untouched Sunday morning breakfast with venom on her tongue and an open wound on her heart.

 

The afternoon passed...

in darkness. It passed in papers, books- but only sometimes; for Kenya had little interest in her school work and not nearly enough motivation to complete it. It passed mostly in silence and occasionally in music; sad, slow, tear-inducing. The afternoon thus passed in tears and tissues scattered about the bed. It passed in-

A knock, once, at the door.

"Not now, Amanda."

"It's Stahma. I need my bath beads."

"Use the ones in the bathroom."

A pause. "Amanda wants to talk to us both in an hour."

"Well screw her. And screw you, too!"

Kenya heard the shuffling of footsteps, the closing of a door, and the rush of water.

She set her alarm for an hour, threw her head into the pillow, and cried.

_{Nomya ksa gerono ya, sho me finji?}_  
 _{Oninje yetaluno fozwe ike fyulu.}_

 

As it turned out, the alarm was an unnecessary precaution.

Fifty minutes had passed since Stahma's warning when Amanda came rapping on the door. "Kenya!" came the muffled voice. "C'mon, Kenya. Kitchen table. If you want to be a part of this family, you better get your jeking ass out here in the next two minutes."

Kenya groaned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

The clock blinked back.

"Kenya!"

"Alright, alright! I'm coming!"

Kenya batted her eyes against the hallway light and stumbled into the central room. On the far side of the table nearest to the kitchen door sat Stahma, hands folded neatly in her lap and still-wet hair slung over her right shoulder. The cotton t-shirt- _Kenya's_ cotton t-shirt!- had been soaked through where the hair touched. Grey sweats (Kenya's!) covered Stahma's crossed legs, from which two pointed and bare feet protruded. The sight filled Kenya with simultaneous and uncontainable adoration and resentment; for despite all her anger, _despite_ the implications of Stahma's borrowed nightclothes, Stahma had never appeared more humble, more youthful, more the very essence of the girl for whom Kenya had so hopelessly fallen.

Tears, again, threatened to spill.

Amanda gestured for Kenya to sit.

And Kenya grudgingly did so.

Eyes flickered about- to Amanda, to Stahma, back to Amanda, whose hands were folded on the table and whose diplomatic intensions broke the silence. **  
**  
"Alright, girls, here's the thing: Neither of you are exactly _girls_ any more and there's very little point in me trying to parent you. With any luck, I'll have you both out of the house in a year- assuming Kenya can manage to graduate..."

"She will," Stahma insisted. "I'll make sure of it."

"...that having been said," Amanda went on, "you're still stuck with me until May at the very _earliest._ Both of you. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"What?" Kenya mocked. "We can't break up over something petty?"

"No! God- no. I don't care how you two want to define your relationship, nor do I really want to know. You need to at least learn to coexist as siblings, alright? High school is hard, and it'll be so much jeking harder when there's not some sense of stability at home. I don't want either of you to have that problem."

Stahma's gaze fell to the table, and her chin tucked inwards. _"Bihalazhwe."_

"-and this talk isn't some kind of punishment for what happened this morning. I would've liked to have this conversation last weekend..."

"But I got sick," Kenya finished. Amanda nodded.

"And Stahma was very, very good to you while you were in the clinic."

"I know."

"Stahma?" Amanda prompted. The Casti looked up expectantly. "Can you promise to be a little bit more communicative?"

A beat of hesitation, and then: "Of course."

"Kenya-" Amanda reached out and placed her hand upon her sister's shoulder. Her voice softened. "Please be a little more patient."

"I'll try." Kenya sighed and shifted uncomfortably. "Is that all? Can I go back to my room? I'm... tired."

Kenya did not wait for an answer.

And Stahma did not hesitate to follow.

"You're still angry with me," she hissed as the bedroom door clicked shut. Kenya turned- not quickly, not with any sense of drama, but as though she truly _were_ tired. There was sympathy rather than the expected anger in her gaze.

"No, Stahma. I'm not."

"Oh." Stahma stepped slowly past Kenya and said, "this room is unclean."

"Just like everything else in this house, right?" Kenya deadpanned.

"No, I'm sorry- it's, uhm, actually quite untidy."

Kenya's eyes followed Stahma's hooked fingers as they dipped to retrieve a crumpled bit of tissue from atop the bed. Stahma moved across the room with a sort of strange gracefulness; graceful in nature, as Stahma always was, but awkward by association. For in those nightclothes, she looked like any lanky and ambling human youth.

But Stahma, dear reader, was not youthful.

And Kenya tended to believe that 'youthful' was something Stahma had never been.

How could one maintain any innocence in a world so torn? How could the survivors pretend that they had not witnessed death? How could they pretend that there had not been some sacrifice? The age of Peter Pans had long been gone; Childhood had not dissipated from these girls' hands like dying pixie dust; it'd been ripped from their bodies in the mid of night.

There had never been time for sandbox crushes, and so old love walked even in the pajamas of growing children. Thus was the case of Stahma.

Now, Stahma discarded the used tissue and made her way back to the bed. Her hand traveled to the pillow, where still there was an indent left from Kenya's head. Slipping her palms under the pillow, Stahma lifted the cushion to her face, inhaled, and gently fluffed the pillow before returning it to the head of the bed.

"You've been crying," she said simply. The back of an outstretched hand caressed Kenya's cheek. "You humans are so strange in that way."

"In what way?"

"You'll shed a tear over anything. It's actually quite..." Stahma canted her head. "Endearing."

The proximity and touch of Stahma's fingertips upon Kenya's face made the small girl warm and giddy in a way she so wished not to feel on this particular day- yet Kenya could not deny her ever-growing affection any more than she could deny the differences that hindered any relationship between her and the object of said affection. Thus, her breathing hitched and a shiver shook the length of her spine, and all involuntarily.

"I saw you cry once," she said. Stahma's brow furrowed slightly in a vague show of confusion. Kenya raised her chin. "Last week."

"You were very ill, Rose. You frightened me." Stahma's fingers danced over Kenya's eyelids. "Wait here and close your eyes."

"Where are you going?"

"Wait," Came the already muffled reply. Footsteps trailed further and further down the hallway. Kenya heard another voice- Amanda's, supposedly- say a few indistinct words, and within moments Stahma's light footsteps came back within audible range and a cold touch of metal brushed against Kenya's neck. A small weight dropped over Kenya's collar bone and tickled her flesh.

"I found something for you while I was out," Stahma breathed. Her hand linked through Kenya's arm and tugged gently. "Come towards the mirror, Kenya. Your eyes are closed?"

"Yes."

"Open them."

Where before there had been bare flesh now dangled a single shard of relatively clear quartz approximately half the size of Kenya's thumb. The top-most quarter inch was coated in a thin layer of gold, which trailed upwards into a golden chain that encircled her neck. Her fingers reached upwards, trance-like, to trace the faces of the milky crystal. Kenya's eyes flickered upwards to Stahma's mirrored image.

"Do you like it?"

"I-It's... amazing," Kenya stammered. "I haven't ever received anything like it. But... Why?"

"An apology," Stahma said simply. "And now I ask for a favor in return."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly my writing is not at its best right now, so I apologize for the atrocity that is this chapter.


	19. Flurries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I exist and still care about this fic! Hi! Hello! Forgive me and my increasingly short attention span and writing skills!

That "favor," as it turned out, was as simple as some help in the kitchen.

Picture this: Kenya sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging over the edge while Stahma's tongue spins stories of a strange and foreign childhood, dominated by white walls and the tang of hangobolo. It's the same spice that now hangs in the air and burns in Kenya's nose. Stahma's fingers slide between Kenya's lips and then the spice is dancing on her tongue, and Stahma's gaze weighs heavier than the quartz around her neck.

Hear the clang of silverware as the three Rosewaters ate around the kitchen table, and Stahma declaring a soft thanks to both the two sisters and Rayetso.

And as time passed, ready lips and kinetic tongues became harder to suppress. To a human girl who falls too easily and too fast, it had already been too long of a wait until the first “I love you.” But once said, it felt more than right, more than natural, and the words were echoed in Kenya’s every action. Stahma was not so quick to reciprocate, but when she traced foreign shapes onto Kenya’s skin in the dark of night, Kenya imagined that Stahma was professing her love in Castithan poetry.  
  
And maybe someday, she’d recite it out loud.  
  
So life was-  
  
Quiet. Simple. Shattered less and less frequently by nightmares of Hunter Bell. Every now and again, Stahma would ask in her smiling way what troubled Kenya in dreams, and Kenya would say, “I don’t remember,” while her tone begged, “give me time. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”  
  
November rain began to freeze, and one morning in mid December, Kenya woke to find the windows frosted over with crystals as white as her lover’s skin. Her teeth chattered, her flesh rose in small bumps; and because Stahma’s body was warm and near and the outside world was cold and far, Kenya curled closer into Stahma’s back and tucked a single hand under Stahma’s side.  
  
“You’re awake,” Stahma whispered, shifting in an attempt to glance at Kenya over her shoulder.  
  
“Shh. It’s too cold. We’re not getting up yet...”  
  
  
  
Snow angels.  
  
With Stahma, you hardly had to touch the ground in order to make one. Stahma- floating amongst the snowy drifts, lips curled, hair pinned back, shoulders tipped with delicate flakes of ice- was much an angel in her own right. The world seemed just a bit brighter wherever she walked, as though it were aware of her heavenly status and thought it necessary to grace her silhouette with a halo.  
  
Snow angels seemed silly, childish to Stahma.  
  
And so it was ironic that Stahma gave the very term she so ridiculed an entirely new meaning.  
  
It wasn't even her wintery complexion that gave Stahma her glow. It was her posture, the tilt of her chin. At night it was the glow of her eyes- _do my eyes glow?_ Kenya would wonder,- and in the day it was the gleam of her smile.  
  
Stahma's complexion wasn't even that wintery at all; For it was in the winter that Kenya finally came to understand Stahma's warmth.  
  
But Stahma was not made of fire! Even when Stahma's fingers dove deep into Kenya's core-  
Even when Stahma's hands braced Kenya's body against the cold sheets-  
Even when Stahma's tongue brushed away goosebumps and shivers-  
Even in the midst of sex and sparks and ecstatic sighs, Stahma was not made of fire.  
  
She was flesh and perspiration. She was heavy, throbbing, bearing down upon Kenya and at times desperate for support because her limbs felt frail and her mind went weak. Stahma was made of slurred Kastenglish, of shampoo flakes still left in her hair, and of lipstick-stained grins.  
  
Stahma was warm.  
  
On the forefront of that winter, Stahma was no longer an exotic entity. She was warm. She was human in a sense that Kenya had never before known. And through Kenya's tinted eyes, Stahma was as divine as any earth-bound being could be.  
  
Winter was the greatest of revelations, the most beautiful of breakthroughs! Suddenly Kenya was at once in love and in awe and in absolute security. She understood! She worshipped! She woke to a world of dreams in which she had _family_ and laughter and the brightness of sunshine sleeping beside her in her own bed! Kenya felt she had transcended all human and otherwise understanding of what it mean to _love._  
  
She was sure.   
  
She was _positive_ of it, even when Amanda’s raised eyebrow seemed to say, _Oh, Ken. You’re still so young._  
  
But things from the past have a way of making their way back into the present, especially when all seems to be _perfect_ and _still._   
  
The change would come in the form of a Christmas party. In the beginning “Christmas party” was the only information Kenya knew. Her breath came in short puffs over the tufts of fur that formed a ring around the neck of her coat, and her feet fell in soft silence over white powder. She turned to Stahma, still walking, and in momentary awe of the way the white-covered urban landscape magnified the lilac of Stahma's eyes and the deep red of her lips. Kenya faltered, regained herself. Said: "There's gonna be a party on Christmas eve." She tilted her head. "What do you think?"  
  
"I'm not sure what you're asking."  
  
"Will you come with me?"  
  
The barest suggestion of amusement threw a curve to Stahma's lips. "Kenya, who is hosting this? Where is it?"  
  
"Mmm, Christie's older brother, maybe?"  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"Oh, c'mon, Stahma. It's going to be fun."  
  
"You hardly know anything about this event," Stahma pointed out. "I trust we'd enjoy ourselves far more on our own."  
  
"That's a pathetic excuse."  
  
Stahma stopped and turned to Kenya, and two gloved hands reached upwards to cradle Kenya's chin. Kenya's gaze- eager, if perhaps a bit wary- skimmed over Stahma's hard-set features. Narrowed lavender eyes met Kenya's melting blues, and painted lips met with the hunger of familiarity.  
  
"Find out more," Stahma said, breaking away, "and maybe I'll consider it."  
  
  
And thus, Kenya had a new mission-   
  
Which was, of course, easily accomplished. A brief conversation with Christie answered the questions Stahma had already voiced and a number of others.  
  
Luke McCawley- Christie's eldest brother- had returned from San Francisco and was hosting the get together. Presents? Nah, it's not "that kind of party- oh, c'mon, Ken. You know how these things are." Would there be a lot of people? Probably. Luke was even bringing some friends from out of town. All the more reason to convince Stahma to come too, right? "And to be honest," Christie said, "I'd love to have some of my own friends there.”   
  
  
Sometimes the snow fell in light flurries over the town of New York. Sometimes, Stahma came inside from one of her private walks, and there'd be just the most delicate dusting of snow on her eyelashes, her hood. The tips of her fingers glowed as pink as Castithan skin could ever get; and when her lips caught Kenya's, it felt as though Stahma was only trying to defrost her cold and silver tongue.   
  
  
Amanda was surprisingly bitter about the girls' plans for Christmas Eve.  
  
"You could probably come too if you really wanted," Kenya suggested. Amanda shrugged and tossed her gaze in the other direction.  
  
"No, it's cool. You guys should go and have fun. I was just looking forward to..." A hesitant smile. "Never mind."  
  
  
Picture this: cool, crisp air hanging over mounds of wet snow. Kenya waits with her arms crossed and teeth clamped tightly together. Tension builds as a group of human boys break through the school doors and continue talking loudly amongst themselves. Kenya, without much grace, steps out of the way and falls backwards into the snow. One of the boys snickers, and in Kenya's eyes, he bares a striking resemblance to Hunter. It's not his facial structure, his build, his coloring- it's the expression, the unrestrained and barbarian cruelty of his intent.  
  
"Waiting for your Casti bitch?" He prompts. Kenya, brushing the snow from her clothes, struggles to stand. "I'm talking to you, Kenya. You wanna fucking answer me?"  
  
Picture the way Kenya folds her tiny, raging hands across the cage of an angered heart, of lungs that are tired of breathing the stale urban air. Picture the way her nose tips upwards and her eyes flash when she spits, "Get a jeking grip," and moves in the direction of the school. "What do you care?"  
  
"I don't," he says, backing away with a shrug. "But you should. You'd be fucking screwed if Datak was still around. Hell, man. If I were Datak, you'd be dead _skragi_ by now."  
  
"Oh, fuck you."  
  
He spits, opens his mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it: one of the other boys is tugging him back and saying something along the lines of, "C'mon, man. What the fuck are you doing?" He turns around. Walks away.  
  
Picture the way Kenya jumps and flinches as someone, approaching from behind, makes themselves known by calling her name. Imagine the way Kenya relaxes and falls into open arms upon the realization that it's only Stahma- Stahma, with her thick cream cloak and a bag full of books and a troubled line across her lips. She says: "Are you okay?" Kenya nods and represses the bitter scowl attempting to overthrow her placid expression. "Kenya, repeat after me: _Hidhatso._ "  
  
 _"Hidhatso."_  
  
"I have lived through it."  
  
  
In the week leading up to Christmas, the snow melted and fell again twice. Amanda laughed about it one morning with a strand of blonde hair twirled between her fingers and her eyes set on the window. "Mom said that white Christmases in this part of the country were a lot more rare before the terraforming," she said.  
  
Kenya nodded absently, feeling a slight tug from working Stahma's fingers at the back of her head.  
  
"Do you still miss her?"  
  
"Sometimes." A pause. Amanda sighed, fogging the cold glass of the window. "You alright, Ken?"  
  
"I'm still having trouble forgiving her."  
  
Stahma's hand brushed the side of her cheek and lingered just a little longer than necessary before starting on the next braid.  
  
"What shall we make for breakfast?" Stahma hummed, and the heaviness of the room began to subside.   
  
  
They decorated the tree together.  
  
At least, that had been the plan. But by the time Kenya climbed out of bed on the morning of the twentieth, she found the process to be nearly halfway done. The living room was dim and smelled of pine. Kenya wrapped her arms tightly across her chest as she lowered herself to sit beside Stahma and bask in the heat radiating from her lover’s body. Stahma’s eyes flickered up towards Kenya in greeting, but her attention remained focused upon the leather diary in her lap.  
  
“Good morning,” Kenya yawned. “Looks like you already did all the work, huh? Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”  
  
Stahma closed the book, leaving one finger between the pages where she had left off. Her gaze drifted over to the tree in such a manner that it was as though she was just surfacing from water; it was the look, Kenya thought, that she’d seen so many times on Stahma's face as it blinked back into consciousness from an hour of absent meditation in the bath- and always Kenya wanted to bring the warmth of the present back to Stahma's eyes, to lean over and say, "come back to me."  
  
And Stahma always came back eventually. Now, a smile and a low gaze graced her face, and she said, "Amanda did much of it. We thought to wake you, but I thought you might need your sleep."  
  
"I'm surprised _you_ didn't after being up so late.”  
  
“Self-discipline. I told myself I would get up early, and so I did.” Stahma paused, then matter-of-factly said: “I have something new I want to try. I’ve been doing some reading.”  
  
“Reading?”  
  
“Information, research. I want to be as knowledgeable as possible about the human body and how best to stimulate it.”  
  
“Stahma, I’d say you’re already somewhat of an expert.”  
  
“You flatter a humble girl.” Kenya’s eyes flitted across Stahma’s lips- so close, they suddenly seemed! Offered, ready, waiting like the ripest of fruits. And under any other circumstances, she may have accepted the offer readily; but Kenya was only just awake and her mouth still tasted of sleep and midnight kisses. Thus instead, Kenya smiled, and placed no more than a chaste peck to Stahma’s parting lips.  
  
“Good morning,” Kenya said again in the same sleepy, sickly-sweet slur that one might voice a confession- a reminder of love.  
  
“Good morning,” Stahma agreed softly. “Why don’t you show me how to finish off this tree?”


	20. A Ghost of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a small, post-apocalyptic world.

Little work remained; for until Amanda returned with the lights (for that was indeed the reason for Amanda's absence), the tree would simply not be complete. Nonetheless, Stahma and Kenya took importance in the few decorations that had yet to be used. Many were crude and hand-crafted: One ornament- a star shaped from popsicle sticks and a paper center- was framed by a border of lumpy glitter and contained the handwritten words of a child: "best sister award," all lower case. Stahma's fingers rested in the valleys of the star's five points. She turned it over, searching for any further explanation the ornament might contain. Found: nothing.

"Oh, that?" Kenya said. "I made that for Amanda when I was like seven. Teacher had to spell out the words for me like five times."

Oh, to imagine Kenya a young child, with rounded, rosy cheeks and wobbly knees! Stahma reveled in these images momentarily, whilst Kenya's quick fingers snatched up the ornament and placed it back in its original box.

"We don't need that," she said. "There's barely any room left."

Stahma nodded seeing as this was indeed true. She resorted to packing away those decorations that had gone unused and, upon finishing, stepped back to behold this Earthling custom in its full glory.

There was, however, very little glory to behold.

"It's a bit dull," Stahma admitted, trying not to let her tone convey that she had indeed been hoping for more. Kenya took no insult.

"Well, that's what happens when you let a Casti decorate a Christmas tree!" she teased. "But just wait until we get some lights on this. _Then_ we'll have something worth looking at."

On the second matter, Kenya was right; Upon Amanda's return, the dull, homey living space turned into a festival of color. Kenya wrapped herself in a string of white lights, begging an opinion. "These?" She said- and, responding to Amanda's gesture, indicated the colored string lying (but connected to an outlet) on the floor. "Or those?"

How could one choose? How could one such as Stahma choose between "these" and "those" when it was the light reflected in Kenya's eyes that shone brightest? When all Stahma wanted to say was: "this tree is undeserving. Let's hang them on the wall and write out your name in lights."

 

"We'll use both," Kenya eventually decided.

And when, towards the end, Kenya remarked that the tree still was not complete without a star, Stahma knew just where to find one.

 

 

Christmas Eve came at last.

-or rather, Christmas Eve just _came._ There was, after all, no build up. The eve happened upon them as most things did: without pretense or forewarning.

And then Stahma and Kenya were walking through the snowy darkness, not a millimeter of space between the two of them. The air had but one intention: To eat away at the very core and numb the body through. Such an atrocity was, of course, not allowed. Body heat, though precious and scarce, was easily shared between the two girls. Their two coats- one of dark leather, one of silvery fur- seemed but one mass of warmth with a forcibly stitched middle line.

"Are you warm enough, my fandeto?"

"Enough," Kenya responded, and Stahma nodded in her typically cool fashion. _enough._

"What's troubling you?"

"I'm fine."

"You're tense," Stahma protested. Kenya's lips gave way to a sigh, a tight smile.

"I'm just... you know, not looking forward to the usual backlash."

"Kenya..." Stahma spun and tucked one hand below Kenya's chin. "We are proud," she said; and her eyes burned in the evening light like hot amethyst. "We have nothing of which to be afraid. And Kenya... We don't have to attend this gathering if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No, no. I want to go. I'm fine. I'm actually pretty excited too, you know."

Stahma smiled and brought Kenya's hand to her lips. "Then you shall hold your head high," she said. "If anyone gives you trouble, you come see me."

"I can manage myself just fine," Kenya breathed.

"But should you need someone... _myeme tsa."_

Light shone through a frosted window up ahead. If nothing else, the promise of heat beckoned them onward, and the two were swept into a bubbling chaos of holiday cheer.

It smelled like...

Frosted gingerbread, served with fragrant adreno and a shot of rum. Of course, the air was a complex cocktail of many other things- sweat, firewood, cinnamon, cigarette smoke- but it was the gingerbread to which Kenya clung, pressing her way between bodies until the seas parted long enough only to provide passage into the kitchen. Here, Christie sat propped up on the flour-dusted counter, perspiration and white frosting dotting her brow. Upon Kenya’s entrance, Christie hopped down and embraced her friend quickly before pulling away to apologize, "I'm such a mess! Did I get any on you?"

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

"Is Stahma with you?"

"Yeah, she's..." Kenya gestured towards the door. "...out there, somewhere? Socializing? Probably smiling all smug and seducing human boys."

_"Castithans."_

"Gotta love 'em."

"Yeah," Christie agreed. "Don't you and I know it." She paused for a moment, stepped back to pick up a rag hanging over the sink and wipe away the remnants of dough from her hands. A tiredness was present in her smile, a sort of accidental break in the perfect mask of the young hostess- not, of course, that this was _her_ party, but it seemed fairly obvious in that moment that Luke McCawley had done very little work in preparation for the mobs that he had brought into this house. Christie had much the pride of any Castithan woman; she would rather be the silent hand behind a perfect empire than see any shame fall upon her kin. Ironically, Kenya thought, her own dear Casti lover was increasingly the opposite. When once Stahma would have been complacent enough to let Datak take credit for the cooperation she so easily won, Stahma now seemed more eager to receive credit for each tiny victory.

How strange Kenya had found a particular school interaction just some few weeks ago!- On that particular day, Stahma had pulled Kenya aside with a tight grasp and an urgent look that seemed to bore through Kenya's eyes and into the locker behind her. Her tongue worked like cautious, calculating clockwork, saying: "Can I tell you something? I don't want you to think badly of me for it."

"Yeah, of course."

"Mrs. Brooks spoke to me alone just now. She wanted to let me know that I got the highest mark in the class on my narrative."

"Stahma, that's amazing!"

And Stahma had beamed with a look of welcome surprise, as though Kenya's praise had been but fingers pressing a small candy through Stahma's lips. There was nothing arrogant in Stahma's confession, but there was certainly an element of innocence that made Kenya's heart _ache._

To grow up a Casti girl was, in many ways, to know the quiet power of invisibility.

But times, as both Christie and Kenya could attest to, were changing. They had to. A growing percentage of their generation shared a deep and common desire to shake the very core upon which their new earth had been founded. This hierarchy, this toxic wasteland of ancient laws and scriptures and codes were not and would never be acceptable.

Yet there was only so much to be done by two human girls stuck in the dim lights of a kitchen on just another Christmas eve.

"How's Alak?"

"Same as ever. Not here. He got a gig helping out with a local radio station."

"Yeah, Stahma told me about that. Congrats?"

“Yeah. Thanks. Like, on his behalf.” Christie leaned back on the hard edge of the countertop. Her gaze drifted to the open door, and Kenya’s eyes followed. For the first time, Kenya observed that the guests [as far as she could tell] were primarily human or human-passing. Back in Kenya’s hometown, this would have been normal- anything else would have been peculiar, but here…

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Christie said. “Like, less than a century ago, it was just _humans,_ but I just can’t imagine a life without the votans. It feels like they’ve been here forever.”

“And yet our lives feel so different and separate at times.”

“I don’t know about that. I spend so much time with Alak’s family that sometimes I forget I’m human at all. It’s- it’s funny. I didn’t even care about Christmas much this year because, you know, there wasn’t any excitement over it in the Tarr household, so I started seeing all the buzz from this, like, spectator position. I used to get _so excited_ about Luke’s Christmas party. I thought that his friends were so cool, that _I_ was cool when I got to hang out with them. But they’d just tease me and make me feel like shtako, you know? I mean, not that Casti men don’t do the same thing. I- I’m not really sure how to get to my point. Or, like, what my point even is.”

“It’s okay,” Kenya said. “I think I get what you’re saying.”

“Yeah. It’s just, you know, here I am, sitting in the kitchen during Luke’s big Christmas party, and somehow I don’t even really mind. I guess I’ve kinda reevaluated what is and is not important.”

“Cookies are definitely important.”

“See, I knew you’d get it.”

Kenya shrugged in a faux display of humbleness. “That’s just what friends are for.”

 

Eventually, Stahma's keen nose led her out of the throng and into the kitchen. Christie and Kenya both turned with red in their cheeks and frosting dotting their chins. Christie waved and followed through to her lips where she licked clean the sugar from her hands, and Kenya gestured sideways with her head, saying, "Come here!"

Stahma took just  
one step forward.

Kenya furrowed her brow, cocked her head. "Stahma, what's wrong?"

"There is a man here not from this town," Stahma replied; slow, gentle, deliberate. "He is asking after you, Kenya. He claims that he is an old friend of yours."

"Did you find out his name?"

 _"Su._ He calls himself Hunter."

"Hunter Bell?" Christie interrupted. "He's a friend of Luke's. He was here last year."

"Kenya?" Stahma moved forward with urgency now, her arms outstretched until they came to pause on Kenya's tiny frame. "You smell of fear, _fandeto._ Who is Hunter Bell?"

Moisture coated Kenya's eyes, and her hands grasped at the back of Stahma's dress. "I want to go home," she whispered. "Please."

“Of course. Where’s your jacket?”

“Over there.”

“Alright. Mine is in the coat closet. Christie, sweetie, would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”

Christie nodded slowly and started out of the room. “Yeah, sure.”

“Grab yourself some nightclothes while you’re at it. I’d like you to come back with us,” Stahma added. A small smile broke over Christie’s lips.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

A rush of brown hair disappeared out the door, and again Stahma’s eyes sought answer’s in Kenya’s troubled expression, in the way her lip had begun to quiver and her flesh had begun to rise in patches of gooseflesh. “Kenya, please tell me who this man is.”

“He’s- he’s someone I left behind,” Kenya spit. “He’s my abuser.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** 8/13/14 **  
> Chapter 21 is in the works- I'm about 1/4 into it and hope to have it posted some time next week at the latest. I'd like to thank those who haven't given up on me and this fic; I know it's a bit of a long haul ;)
> 
> I have also corrected a couple of errors: One from this chapter, and one from a chapter previous. 
> 
> From this chapter: Originally, Kenya said something about people referring to Stahma as "favi." This was a pretty dumb mistake on my part- favi is a term only used for married people, and Stahma is certainly /not/ wed to anyone.
> 
> From Chapter 5: Stahma asks Kenya to count to three in Casti, and Kenya counts: "Fila, kama, dunya-" and this would be correct if she was counting specific objects! (DJP gives the example "fila gialino," or "one rug.") Kenya now uses the correct counting numbers in Chapter 5, which are, in order, "Ave, kama, dune."
> 
> Phew!
> 
> For more on counting in Castithan, check out DJP's post [on Casti and Irath math.](http://dedalvs.tumblr.com/post/92076237521/how-does-math-work-for-irathient-castithan-they-seem)


	21. Greener Grass

On the long walk back, Stahma wondered why she even felt this intensely anymore.

 _Nothing,_ she thought, should be so shocking, so worthy of her anger when she had already seen so much. The nature of Kenya’s previous relationship with Hunter [as Kenya had described it in their few last minutes in the McCawley’s kitchen] was not much different than a number of _healthy_ and exclusively Castithan relationships with which Stahma was familiar. What _had_ surprised Stahma was the strength she saw in Kenya’s raw confession; for though her tone had been level and her jaw firmly clenched as she recounted both the offenses Hunter committed and the struggle Kenya had endured in the name of recovery, Kenya’s form had remained as fragile and as vulnerable as ever. Pain was evident enough in her words; there was no necessity to find it in her steady voice or stare.

Once- in fact, not very long ago, Stahma found this rawness of the human condition to be a great weakness. Now, a tinge of envy clung to her heart; for never would she be _strong_ enough to demonstrate the same vulnerability with such ease. This was not to say that Stahma did not, occasionally, melt her own icy composure; you, reader, know this well. Yet these incidences were always draining; they required an immensity that Stahma could rarely muster. It was easier to default back to stoicism.

But now- now, Stahma was angry.

And she showed it. She she _felt_ it.

She felt it burn in the tips of her fingers, hot fuchsia blood pooling like molten lava beneath the surface of her skin. She felt anger sting at the scars forming over barely healed wounds- wounds, she thought, that might not be so different than the ones Kenya may have once bore, even if only in origin rather than depth. Stahma felt anger so vivid she that she feared her clean skin might explode with color.

Vaguely, she hoped that it might.

-Vaguely? No, the wish was not even a vague one; for now that it had been thought, it was as specific as any wish could be! Stahma hoped and _wished_ that her skin might become infected with the warm and dark tones of humankind so that she may steal Kenya away into a life uncomplicated by status, by prejudice, by _marusha_ and the codes of the _mibuniro._ Such a miracle would not, of course, fix all of their problems; it would not undo the damage caused by Hunter’s brutal hands, nor would it change the system which presently made their lives such a hell. But Stahma would _happily_ bathe in human squalor if it spared her the vile condition of her own race.

So she _wished_ and she _hated_ and she allowed her conscious mind to rot in her inner turmoil until- at last! like the first sight of land after a long year at sea- Kenya’s hand came tugging at Stahma’s, and from Kenya’s lips were the words: “Stahma? Come back. I need you.”

And like that, Stahma was back, and the winter night cooled the fire in her bones. _”Myeme tsa,”_ she murmured. _I’m here._

Not far ahead, Christie trotted onward, an air of hesitance looming about her figure.

"We're almost there, Christie," Stahma called, and the human threw her backwards glance.

"Yeah," Christie mumbled. "I figured."

 

The Rosewater household was quiet and dimly lit. To no one's surprise, the first and only sign of life was the movement of Amanda's arm as she sat at the dining table and sipped an ample glass of scotch. Her blonde waves fell limp and ragged over shoulders slumped like mounds of snow, iced over and melting under the burn of alcohol. She greeted the girls with a short laugh and a "I hope you guys expect me to share;" but the mirth was quick to drain as she scanned the faces of those around her. "Shit. What's wrong?"

"We had a less than unpleasant encounter at the McCawley's," Stahma said. She regarded Kenya carefully. Her face seemed to say it’s alright. Go on. She knows, and so Stahma finished: “There was a young man present by the name of Hunter Bell.”

“Oh my God. Kenya-” Amanda reached out instinctively, wrapping Kenya in an embrace. "Are you okay? Did you talk to him?"

"No, I- I didn't even see him. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Amanda's hand stroked Kenya's hair, seeking both to sooth and stabilize in one repeated movement. With her gaze, Amanda acknowledged the third guest. "You're Christie, right? We've met once or twice before. Are you spending the night?"

"Yeah, if that’s okay,” Christie responded. “ And yeah, we never seem to meet under really great circumstances.”

"Yeah? Well maybe this time will be different.” Amanda folded out of Kenya’s embrace. “It’s Christmas, and as long as Kenya is up for it, I think we should celebrate. What do you say, baby sister?”

Kenya smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.”

Stahma’s hand rested tentatively on Kenya’s shoulder. “Are you sure, _hanilo?_ ” she said; and out of the corner of her eye, Stahma saw young Christie blush of, perhaps, embarrassment for having so much as witnessed such a show of affection.

Kenya nodded in affirmation.

“As long we stay here, I’m good.”

 

“That,” Amanda said, “can be managed.”

And so Christmas Eve came to pass far more favorably than it had started; watered-down hot chocolate, half-forgotten holiday songs, and a quarter-full bottle of scotch were passed about the room. The flames in the fireplace did a morbid waltz, heat licking at heels and light bouncing from every surface. The radio played what carols would not be remembered and sang in competition with those which _could_ be recalled. At one point, Kenya even felt so inclined to stand and start dancing, pulling up each of the other three girls in turn to spin once, twice…

Kenya fell on the floor in a heap of laughter, fingers still tangled like breaking cobwebs through Stahma's compliant hands, and in the same movement pulled Stahma down to rest upon the floor beside her. As the last of giggles trickled from Kenya’s lips, she found it most necessary to contain the rest through means of a kiss; Thus, Stahma became the new conductor of the human’s mirth. She drank it readily, allowing her own passion to mimic Kenya's; but in time, Stahma herself because a grounding force, and all energy flowed from foot to carpet to floor to earth.

Amanda coughed.

"Okay, that's probably my signal to go to bed," she said, standing. "Christie, feel free to go claim the bed while you can. They can take the floor.”

“Of course,” Christie whispered. “Goodnight. Thank you.” To Stahma, Christie gestured down the hall, and said: “I’m gonna… go to bed, I guess.”

Stahma, who by now sat upright with the near motionless Kenya gathered into her arms, smiled coolly and said, “stay with me just a moment longer. She’s nearly asleep.” Her hand moved over Kenya’s cheek in a movement both possessive and tender. Christie shifted uneasily on the couch, her eyes darting about a room that seemed suddenly too small, too closed-in. Stahma laughed. “I don’t often enough get to enjoy your company alone.”

“Okay,” Christie said, admitting defeat and watching as Amanda, with only the slightest hesitation, exited from the room.

“I like to think that- despite my _falling out_ with Datak- you are still my _zhurizibuno,_ my-”

“Yeah, family. I know.”

“-Of course.” Stahma lowered her eyes. “I sometimes forget just how alike we are.”

“Yeah?”

Stahma’s gaze shifted upwards. “You are practically my kind.”

The air in the room grew a little cooler. Christie reached for the blanket at her feet. She considered, briefly, that perhaps the mix of scotch and hot chocolate was making her feel ill. Kenya pressed her face in closer to Stahma’s torso.

Christie warily whispered, “I guess.”

“I have not talked to Alak in some time,” Stahma went on, “but I do tend to run in circles with a number of his companions. It would seem that you are having some trouble.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“He has been unfaithful."

“He’s a Castithan male,” Christie retorted. “He has needs.”

“So do you humans. And if I’m not incorrect, fidelity is one of them.”

Christie licked her lips, repeated: “It’s not a big deal.” And then, as though to make a point: “it never mattered to you when Datak cheated.”

"I am a Castithan woman. I expect these things of my lovers."

"Yeah, well, so do I."

As Christie said this, Stahma watched the girl’s face in a careful, calculating way. She noted the angle of her lips, the volume of each word, the finality of her gaze; And Stahma smiled, contented as though she had just been given a long look at the other's cards, and knew she had the better hand.

Stahma always had the better hand.

"It is nice, isn't it?" she mused. "There's a sort of power that comes from the ability to dismiss his fancies, to turn from it and say that you don't care. I find... it always made him want me more."

"He doesn't even know that I know. Not for sure, anyway."

"Tell him. Let him know how unworthy the matter is of your energy. Have pride, Christie. He has no reason to keep secrets from you if you make known how little they affect you." Stahma's face hardened. "Jealousy is a very human trait."

"I bet Kenya loves how lowly you speak of us."

One of Stahma's slender hands supported Kenya's head as Stahma dipped, inhaling the scent of sleep and scotch. A grin of superiority played at the corners of her lips.

"I don't think you understand," Stahma said, and she shifted Kenya's weight so that her face receded from Christie's view. "I _admire_ Kenya's fragility. I love her for it. I'm sorry to say most of my kin wouldn't feel the same way." Christie was silent, watching as Stahma’s smile crept upwards. “We are sorry to keep you from celebrating the holiday with your family. I know how important Christmas is to you humans.”

“It’s okay,” Christie mumbled. “Dad went out drinking an hour before the party, anyway. The holiday doesn’t have a hell of a lot of importance to me anymore. Especially now that’ mom is...”

Stahma stood, cradling Kenya in her arms and motioning for Christie to follow them to bed.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to feel frustrated with the quality of the writing in this fic which is, in part, due to the fact that I have to work in a rather linear fashion and it's difficult to go back and edit already posted chapters since a number of people are [presumably] reading each chapter as it is "completed". That having been said, I've decided that I /would/ like to take some time to edit that which has already been written here. I will attempt to do this in an organized and transparent manner. Most of the editing will be checking for surface errors, loopholes, inconsistencies, etc, along with some revision of badly written segments. Since I expect very few people will want to take the time to reread the fic, **I will be posting a "chapter update" listing off all of the significant edits that have been made.**
> 
> Sorry for the inconvenience; I'd just like to feel good enough about the completed writing to continue moving forward.  
> Cheers!


	22. Stamo

Stahma's feet touched the ground at the same time the clock blinked 'five.' And as Stahma's half-opened and sleep-infected eyes grazed over the clock, a memory visited:

As a young girl, Stahma had always been an early riser. She'd once asked her mother's handmaid why that was so, supposing it was some penance for a minor sin, or a fluke in her genetics. The handmaid had smiled and said in slightly off-kilter English, "When the sun rises, Summer answers." At seven, Stahma had found the answer kind of funny, and at fourteen, she'd found it rather poetic.

But always, she found the truth of it somewhat frustrating.

Stahma loved sleeping. She loved _dreaming_ ; for the dream world of her girlhood had always smelled faintly of roses. Waking meant leaving that behind, and in the dark morning of her old home, Stahma became impatient, _dizzy_ with frustration. “I want to bathe,” she would say, worrying at her bottom lip tapping her bare feet on the cold floor. “I’m awake and I want to bathe _now!”_

The handmaid would smile and say “No, not now _chimáhe._ You know you must wait for your Mom and Dad to wake up.”

Such an answer was never enough- not for someone so young, not for someone so fiery of will. Dear reader, it was not enough for Stahma.

And so one day, when roses faded too quickly from keen senses, Stahma took it upon herself to fling aside the beaded curtains that closed off her parents’ bedroom. She wailed aloud, cried: “Good _morning!_ ” and stomped about until at last her father rose from the bed. His naked body was taught and peppered with goose flesh. He spoke to his daughter, told her to follow him from the room. Stahma obeyed, but not before calling out to her mother, saying, “come bathe with us too, Mommy! Get up!”

Her mother smiled her perfect tight-lipped smile and said, “Go on. I’ll be up soon.”

But her father did not lead her to the bath. He led her, instead, to the dressing room, which was grand in size and lined with mirrors so that Stahma could run about and watch the movement of her own youthful form. All the while, her father fiddled with a curious object atop the counter. It was long, rod-shaped, and had a thick wire tail that trailed off into the wall. Stahma had seen it before, but only in television commercials filled with pale-skinned human girls. Heats instantly and curls in seconds! A voice would boast. For the curl you've always wanted.

“Stahma,” her father instructed, “come here. Bend over.”

Stahma did so, and felt the sting of the hot metal searing a stripe across the flesh of her back.

Later on, as she cleaned Stahma’s burn with a dripping sponge, the handmaid shook her head and sighed. “You name a child _stamo_ and you expect her not to have heat in her bones…”

This morning, Stahma smelled the slightest trace of roses, and she didn't want to go back to sleep.

And so, after setting the fireplace ablaze, Stahma sat down on the carpet, and she wrote.

Christie McCawley was the second to wake. It was still before six when Christie slipped into the hall, her bag slung over one shoulder and her hair tied up in a bun. She looked well rested, but nonetheless a sort of soft-sung sleepiness registered in her expression. She pulled her sleeves down over her hands and folded her arms across her chest.

"Christie," Stahma whispered. “are you leaving now?”

“Yeah. I- I wanna go talk to Alak.”

Stahma hummed a note of approval and, closing her diary and tucking it under her arm, rose steadily to her feet. “I wish you luck.” As Christie mumbled a word of thank you and crossed over to the door, Stahma added, “Merry Christmas, Christie.”

Christie smiled. “Yeah. You too.”

The door opened, closed, and Christie was gone.

The fireplace  
crackled

and the room  
was still.

Stahma’s toes hardly touched the ground as she made her way back to Kenya’s room. She held her breath as she passed through the doorway. Exhaled. Inhaled sleep and skin and _roses._

In the bed, Kenya lay twisted in the crimson sheets, her fingers knotted around their edges as though locked in a game of tug of war. The corners of her lips pulled downwards. Her legs curled gently backwards. Above her hung a heavy air of such emptiness that Stahma rushed to fill it, kneeling on the bed and sliding her hand under Kenya's body. White, winter-cracked lips pressed kisses to Kenya's forehead as Kenya, eyes fluttering, shifted from sleep.

"Shh," Stahma breathed. "You do not have to wake yet."

Kenya's tongue scraped across the perimeter of her mouth. Her words, garbled and dry, cracked as they climbed from the depths of her throat. "I want to be awake. I kept having bad dreams."

"Oh, _fandeto-"_ Stahma kissed Kenya's eyelids in a feverish frenzy, and Kenya's hands made a half-hearted attempt to  
fend her off.

"Staaah-maa..." The Castithan drew back, her head tilting slightly to one side and her eyes glistening with moisture. "You're so strange."

Stahma offered a short laugh, and her breathing hitched. "You inspire something very human inside of me," she said. "Something very... soft."

"Well, good. I need more of that.”

“You worry me…”

“Is this about Hunter still? It’s nothing, Stahma. _Hidhatso,_ right? I have lived through it.” Kenya slid herself off the bed. “I have a present for you, I’m gonna go-”

“N-no! Wait!”

Kenya spun on her heels. "What? What's wrong?"

Stahma ducked her eyes and smiled bashfully in a display of embarrassment. "Humans, they... generally open their gifts as a family, do they not? I have read much about your holiday but experienced very little."

"I guess," Kenya said. _"Generally._ But it’s always just Amanda and me here, ya know? It’s never really been- you know, it’s not a family. It’s us two giving each other gifts and… I dunno."  
  
"Then we will wait for Amanda. This is my first- perhaps my _only_ human Christmas. It must be done as tradition demands that it be done.” She held out her hand in offering. "Come lay with me for a while, little Rose."

Kenya obliged, allowing Stahma to guide her back under the covers and weld their bodies back together- Kenya's knee between Stahma's legs, her arm wound around Stahma's torso, one hand flush upon Stahma's back; and Stahma's chin, tucked over the rise of Kenya's head. When Kenya spoke, Stahma felt small, hot bursts of air on her skin.

"Your _only_ human Christmas? We celebrating your way next year, or are you planning to get rid of me?"

"'Get rid of you? Kenya, you make it sound so morbid- like I am going to... leave your body in a ditch somewhere and let the hellbugs- Y-you are laughing at me."

"I'm sorry, it's just-" Kenya's tone broke with mirth. "You totally would be one to do that, ya know? Accidentally commit a murder and skip town and people still wouldn't suspect it was you."

"Such slander, _Chimáhe._ Maybe you _should_ worry that the corpse isn't yours."

"But if it is mine, who's gonna help you hide the body and get out of here?"

A low hum of something akin to laughter buzzed in Stahma's throat. "Was that an offer?"

"What can I say? I'm a _romantic."_

"Well then," Stahma breathed, "remind me to keep you around for next Christmas." Stahma buried her face in Kenya's hair. She inhaled. "But for now, _hanilo,_ we can sleep some more."

So Kenya pretended to sleep, and Stahma lay half-awake with the air of roses still filling her lungs.

_But even roses,_ Stahma thought, _have a tendency to decay, to rot, to become diseased and unpleasant;_ for the calm on Kenya’s face barely masked the contortion of an old pain. There was a heaviness about her aura that had no intent of leaving.

And as Kenya’s hand traveled subconsciously along the raised skin on Stahma’s back, a stale taste coated the inside of Stahma’s mouth and blanketed the walls of her throat. Stahma inched her body closer to Kenya’s, fought for more contact. Stahma imagined that the diseased flora of her dreams might manifest itself upon her body, take root in her flesh and suck the heat from her bones until she was no more than a withered and crumbled mess in her lover's arms and oh!- to die in such a way!- To die the very way she thought Kenya might when crimson tears leaked from her eyes and sprayed from her mouth in wild fits of coughing- to die as she thought she might have as Datak's hand beat on the taught, tense, and drum-like flesh, the rhythm of _ilo, ilo, ilo,_ matching the beating of her heart, matching the bitter pleas of _I loved you, I loved you. Don’t do this; I loved you._

“Kenya?” Stahma breathed- stammered; the name raced from her tongue and tri-trip-tripped. Moisture swelled again in her eyes. “You are not asleep?”

A pause of hesitation. “No.”

“I want to be here with you next Christmas, but I do not think I can make any promises.”

“It’s okay, Stahma. I’m not asking you to.”

“I know _you_ are not, but I am and- I am afraid there is something cold inside of me," Stahma said, all poetry lost to the honesty and desperation breaking in her voice.

“Yeah? Well, that could make two of us, but right now I'm freezing, a-and you-” Kenya smiled feebly, and her eyes fluttered open. "-you are so warm." 


End file.
